Destruction Trilogy: Fractured
by Winchester Mythology
Summary: Sequel to Broken. They took everything from him. Now it's his turn. Sam survived his torture at the hands of Toni Bevell in body if not in mind. Safe back at the bunker, Dean must nurse him through the aftermath, unaware that a familiar face has set his sights on revenge. Sam's not convinced anything is even real. Will Dean be able to pull him back from the brink?
1. Prologue

**Hey guys! Thank you to all those who reviewed Broken and responded so positively to the idea of a follow up. A massive thank you to MJ Ellsworth, without whom, the seed of the idea would never have been planted.**

 **A quick note: If you haven't read Broken, it shouldn't be strictly necessary, but this does follow straight on from the events but I will endeavour to fill in blanks as I go through.**

 **Enjoy!**

oOo

 _'Welcome to the end of eras.'_

 _\- Emperor's New Clothes, Panic! at the Disco_

oOo

 **Winchester, England**

 _"In local news, the unidentified body of a young woman was discovered at the top of St Catherine's hill – a popular nature reserve situated just outside of the city of Winchester. The discovery was made around three o'clock this afternoon by a local couple walking their dog._

 _"Police have so far ruled the death suspicious but not a homicide. Residents claimed to have seen a strange flash of lightning above the hill earlier today. Detectives have yet to state whether they believe the two occurrences to be related, although there is some speculation that the woman may have been struck by the unusual storm."_

The video feed ended, again, on the small phone. This was its sixth play in the last four hours. It kept him focused, stopped him from letting the grief rise. It wasn't helpful. He was not interested in irrelevant emotions. Locking the phone, he exited the car, straightening his pressed grey suit.

The building, completed in 1895, was a towering monolith of flint and Bath stone; a unique limestone that glowed a soft yellow in the sunlight at the building's corners. The rest was a warm grey, giving it the same medieval character as many of England's oldest castles. It was fused eternally to The Westgate: one of Winchester's few remaining remnants of the city's ancient defences. Towers and turrets rose towards the bright morning sky, while the lead glass windows glimmered in the sunshine. He walked quickly over the cobbled pathway, heading towards the coroner's office. He held the door open for a petite blonde woman, giving her a courteous smile as she thanked him. His heart ached.

Inside, the waiting room was cool and white; a stark contrast to the history on the outside of the building. He smiled warmly at the receptionist, giving her his credentials when she asked for them. She thanked him, directing him to the seating area. No one paid much attention to the gentlemen in the tailored suit who nodded politely to all who passed him as he sat and waited. None noticed the sharpness in the grey flint of his eyes, the tautness in his shoulders.

He followed, without question, imparting only the briefest of polite conversation, when the coroner came to fetch him. Down into the depths of the building, he followed, polished shoes clicking pleasantly against the tiled floor. The coroner held the door open for him, asking if he was sure that he needed to examine the body again – his partner had only been in the day before. He nodded, motioning with a fluid hand for the official to continue. Pulling back the white sheet on the table, the coroner laid the body to light, tucking it around her shoulders when the man gripped his wrist, preventing him from revealing more that her face. He would protect her, even in death.

Her skin was a cold ivory, brightening the gold in her hair that fell gracefully on either side like a soft halo. It was a vivid contrast to the angry red skin that was seared around where her grey eyes had once been. Her eyes had been so beautiful; a grey that had drawn in the attention of many and stolen the hearts of more. They had been so expressive; he'd known exactly what was on her mind as soon as he'd glimpsed into their molten depths. No one else had known her like he did. No one else deserved to.

His fist clenched.

Her delicate mouth was closed; the blushing pink of her lips having faded. A deep sigh resonated around the room, the only outward display of his heartache. He hadn't wanted this to be his last memory of her; he wanted to remember her fierce independence, her passion, her drive. Not this hollow husk who was a shadow of the Lady Toni Bevell.

Yet he _needed_ to see her this way. Needed to confirm what had been taken from him. It helped him stoke the fire that burned in him. It flared hot as he mourned her, inwardly, privately. He looked up at the coroner, polite façade nailed in place.

"Thank you" he said, giving a slight nod before turning on his heel and leaving. The coroner called after him, but he didn't stop, didn't listen.

He had work to do.

oOo

 **Westminster, London**

"What do you mean you still haven't found them?" Jonathan Markham, Head of the British Chapter of the Men of Letters, growled, his fierce blue eyes narrowed. His fingers drummed heavily against the polished cocobolo table that dominated the main chamber of their headquarters. His board members shifted uneasily on either side of him, suddenly finding the files in front of them, the light fixtures, the floor, vastly more interesting.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the ground teams cannot find any evidence of either Thomas or Anna or where they might be."

"Do we have anything linking them to what Toni was doing? Do we assume they were involved or was it just James?" Jonathan demanded. He despised not knowing; knowledge was everything to the Men of Letters. That such a huge conspiracy had been right under his nose and he hadn't known irked him, prompting his plans to reform the entire chapter. What Sam Winchester had suffered had been heinous; Markham would not allow such vulgarity to happen again.

"Again, we don't know. We can speculate that Thomas, at least, was involved, following Jacob's visit prior to our discovery. His medical knowledge would have proved invaluable. As for Anna, we don't know; she was just Lady Bevell's housemaid."

Jonathan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What do we know that _isn't_ speculation?"

A sharp rap at the door sounded as he spoke. A young man entered hastily, carrying a manila envelope, bringing it directly to Jonathan at the head of the table.

"The coroner's report, sir" the boy said, breathlessly as though he had run straight there. He probably had. Jonathan slid the report from the envelope, staring down at the photos that he was presented with. Toni's grotesquely deformed face stared up at him. He flung the image on the table for the board members to see.

"I think we can confirm that Lucifer no longer has a current vessel. George?" Jonathan looked up at the young man who centred his attention on him. "Tell the coroner I want this ruled as accidental death. Lightning strike."

"Yes, sir. There is one more thing…"

"What?"

"The coroner said that he had a strange visitor come to see the body. He got through, claiming to be a detective, but they checked his records in Winchester. He was an imposter."

 _Thomas._

"Thank you," Jonathan nodded, dismissing George with a small wave of his hand. "I want extra efforts put into finding Thomas. I want him found. Now."

"Should we contact the Winchesters?" Jacob asked. Jonathan fixed him with a thoughtful stare, rubbing his trimmed beard.

"No. Not yet. Thomas is not a danger. I just want to know what he knows."

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Out of the darkness, it started slow, soft, echoing up from the centre of the Men of Letters' bunker. It reverberated down the corridors, filling the space with its jagged, ripped edges. It drowned all else out as it got louder and louder and louder. Deafening.

Silence was a welcome friend in the bunker, but it was fleeting, never staying long.

Dean slid down the wall, head in his hands, curling himself into a ball. He'd never been so useless. He couldn't stop it. Couldn't prevent it.

Sam's screams destroyed the silence of the bunker, ripping it apart.

How much more could he take?

oOo

 **A little shorter than usual, but prologues always are! Fear not lovers of hurt/comfort: we'll get to see our boys in all their glory next!**

 **Please review!**


	2. Slowly Killing Me

**Thank you to all the early readers/reviewers/followers/favouriters!**

 **I forgot to mention: if you want to 'see' the building the coroner was in, Google Castle Hill, Winchester. It's one of my favourite buildings in the city!**

 **So in terms of time scale, this is set about three days after Sam was rescued, two since the flight back to the States from the UK.**

oOo

Maybe he was actually going to die this time.

"Oh, Sam. Always so full of hope. Faith. That's what I think I liked about you. You were so…blind to everything else. It doesn't seem to matter what life throws at you, you just refuse to give up and die. But then…doesn't that actually make you kind of a monster too?"

"No," he moaned, twisting his head away, clenching his burning eyes. "I'm not a monster. I'm not."

He could feel the breath tickling the side of his face, ruffling the hairs that clung to the side of his head. Desperation clawed up inside him, tearing at him, willing him to flinch, to move away. He couldn't. The bed was hard beneath him, unyielding even though he was pressing himself down into it. Sam screwed his eyes shut tighter, wishing _he'd_ move away.

"See, now I _made_ you, Sam. I made everything. I think I'm pretty qualified to say you're a monster" Chuck insisted, resting his chin on his hand, his elbow balancing on the bedframe. Sam cracked feverish eyes open, sliding his forlorn gaze over. The shorter man was knelt beside the bed, his face on level with the hunter's, uncomfortably close. Chuck suddenly stood up, making Sam jerk before he sat on the mattress beside the Winchester. "If you're going to _doubt_ me, Sam, I'll prove it to you" he said brightly, a cheerful grin lightening his features. Sam shook his head, edging back up the bed, smacking against the headboard.

"No, I'm not – I don't…please" he whimpered, his voice breaking to a scream as Chuck stuck his hand into Sam's chest, through his ribcage, wriggling his fingers as he probed at Sam's thumping heart.

"Let's see what's inside, shall we?"

oOo

As soon as the scream echoed down the hallway and into the kitchen, Dean sprinted through the bunker, blind panic surging through him like ice. He'd only been five minutes! His shoes smacked against the tiles as he raced, water bottle clenched in his hand, down to Sam's room; the sound competing with the wailing from up ahead. He grabbed the door frame with his spare hand, swinging himself around on the momentum.

Sam lay on his bed, saturated in sweat, his back arched at an unnatural angle while both of his fists were clenched and pressed into the mattress at his sides. The cords in his neck were visible as he shrieked, writhing in unseen agony.

Dean lurched into the room, crossing to the bed like a shot, climbing up onto it, beside his rigid brother, tossing the water bottle to one side.

"Sammy, c'mon! Fight it! It's not real!" he shouted, pressing down on Sam's chest with one hand, the other grasping at his clenched fist, trying to anchor him.

oOo

It felt like his heart was going to burst. Chuck twisted and pulled, grunting with exertion, frowning with concentration, all the while talking over the sound of Sam's howls.

"Maybe I should've killed you off earlier in the books, like permanently dead, not the kind where you keep coming back. Dean was always my favourite. You got a bit…whiney," Chuck grumbled, nudging a rib out of the way. "No one likes a whiney protagonist; kills a decent story."

"P-please…stop!" Sam gasped, his eyes snapping open as he panted raggedly.

"See? That right there. That's what I mean. No one wants to hear you begging. You're like a broken record: the ultimate cliché. You do the same things over and over again and somehow always end up back in the same place. Don't you get tired of it?" A loud crunching crack reverberated off the walls as Chuck grabbed his chin in a bloodied hand, forcing the hunter to look at him. Sam felt the colour drain from his cheeks, leaving him cold to the core as Chuck waved a blackened hunk of meat in front of him.

"See? You're not good. You never will be with a heart like this" Chuck sighed, dropping the charred organ on the bed, wiping his soiled hands on the white bed sheets.

Sam heard the blow before he felt it, his head snapping to the side. He blinked hard, dragging his feverish, bloodshot eyes back across the room. Chuck was gone. Dean gazed down at him, regret sparking in the depths of the dark emerald green that was fixed on him. Sam scrabbled backwards, pulling himself up against the headboard, flinging the sheets of the bed back.

"Sam? What're you lookin' for?" Dean asked, watching his brother searching the sheets, crumpling them up. His hand snaked up to his chest before he pulled it away, checked it, pawed at his chest again. He looked down, up at Dean, down again, up.

"I don't…I-" he replied, gaze roving again. Dean pressed uncapped the water bottle, gently tugging on Sam's hand and wrapping his fingers around it. He kept his hand wrapped around Sam's, nudging the bottle up. Sam took the hint, bringing the bottle up to his lips and tilting it as Dean let go. He expected to feel the cool liquid saturate his parched throat which was raw and scratchy. Instead, it scalded his tongue, burning as he spat it straight back out, steam rising from the jet of water. He looked at Dean, horror in his eyes.

"That's holy water, you demonic son of a bitch!" Dean hissed, his lip curled in contempt. Sam threw the water bottle away, scrambling away, half falling from the bed as he backed himself into the corner of the room. He curled into a ball, rocking, clamping his hands over his ears as Dean rose up before him.

"Not real. Not real. Notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal."

oOo

The door screeched hideously as Castiel entered the bunker, a pizza box balanced in one hand with a white plastic bag dangling from the same wrist. He pushed the door closed, descending the curving stairwell, trench coat swirling around his knees. He heard nothing, unsure whether he should be relieved or not by the silence that cloaked the bunker. Sam's yells had become almost normal, expected, in their home during the last two days. They came in fits and bursts, raw and heart wrenching. He had finally begun to understand Dean's feelings of inadequacy during this process; he couldn't heal Sam. They just had to wait it out which wasn't good enough.

Cas walked up the steps into the library, the lights still on, casting a soft orange glow across the booklined shelves. He slid the pizza box onto the table beside Sam's laptop which sat dormant on the polished table top. The bottles clinked in the bag as he set them down as well, the sound uncomfortably loud. He moved noiselessly through the room, heading for the hallway.

"Dean?" he called softly, peeking his head in the kitchen. He frowned, noting the half-made coffee – the pot and filter sitting abandoned on the metal counter. Suspicion filled him; those hadn't been there when he'd left earlier. The whole room was a mess; used mugs and crockery piled up by the sink, some, Castiel suspected, beginning to grow their own lifeforms; empty takeout boxes and beer bottles strewn across the table. It would all have to wait. Sam came first.

Moving on, Castiel passed Dean's open bedroom door, the room dark and vacant. The hunter hadn't slept in there since they'd returned. He'd stayed by Sam's side the whole time, sleeping in the uncomfortable wooden chair he watched over his brother from. Cas continued down the curving hallway, following the gentle glow of light that pooled dimly, dispelling the shadows that tried to creep into the edges. Sam's door was cracked open, spilling a thin strip of light out into the hall.

"Dean?" Cas whispered loudly, sticking his head in the door. The room was dim, only a faint glimmer of light escaped the underside of lamp situated on the far side of the room. A shirt had been thrown over it to dampen its intensity further. Sam lay curled on his right side, back to the door, his chest rising and falling evenly beneath the thin white sheet that covered him. Dean sat in the hardbacked wooden chair, facing his brother, watching over him in the dark, one hand raised to his face. He turned and looked up when Castiel called his name. The angel frowned. He was holding an icepack to one side of his face. With a quick glance at his slumbering brother, Dean rose and motioned for the angel to step back out into the corridor. He pulled the door to, but didn't close it completely, his free hand remaining on the door handle.

"What happened?" Cas asked, keeping his voice low.

"He clocked me one earlier. It's fine, Cas" he added when the angel gave him a look. "He didn't mean to. He didn't know what he was doin'."

Cas pulled his hand away, inspecting the deep purple bruise that marred the side of his face, a shallow cut at its centre.

"That isn't the result of a light punch, Dean" Cas chided, reaching up with two fingers and brushing over it. The discolouration disappeared instantly under the light touch.

"It's fine. I've taken worse."

"If we're getting to _that_ stage, Dean, we need to start considering restraining him."

"No."

"It won't be long before he is in danger of seriously injuring you or himself" Cas warned, bright blue meeting scowling green head on.

"No, I won't do it. We'll work around it."

"Dean…"

"I said no, Cas and I mean it," Dean growled, his jaw clenching as he stepped away from the door. "He spent four fucking months chained like a damned animal with no freedom, havin' every move dictated to him. I'm not gonna make him feel unsafe here where he belongs. He's been through enough. I told him we'd do this his way and I ain't breakin' my word."

Castiel sighed; he knew Dean was right even though he was too. The stubborn set of his jaw told the angel that there was no way he would budge on the subject. At least he was there to heal the broken limbs when they happened. He peered at Dean, scrutinising the lines and shadows that had formed in dark patches under his eyes.

"You should go and rest" he remarked, cutting in again when he saw Dean was about to protest. "Sam will be fine; we're only going to be at the end of the hall and I can come back and watch him." Dean hesitated, but noted the slight tightening around the edges of Castiel's eyes. He grumbled, muttering under his breath about overbearing angels who always had to be right as they walked back towards the library.

oOo

Sam's eyes eased open, his body heavy and exhausted but no longer sweltering. His legs were curled up, pulled into a ball, one hand tucked under the pillow while the other was stretched out in front of him. He lay there in the semi-dark just listening to the nothingness around him. Once, the silence would have been a comfort. Now, it was too much. It made him feel alone, lost. His heart slowly thumped harder.

"Got yourself into a right mess this time, didn't you, boy?" He started at the voice, the jolt almost painful in his relaxed muscles. He rolled over, eyes widening in disbelief at the hunter who was sat in the chair where Dean had been. His rumpled old jacket hung loosely around his shoulders, Sam's eyes seeing the dim green even though it wasn't light enough in the room to see it. His dark blue hat was pulled down over his forehead, the peak slightly battered and a bit misshapen. He sat with his arms crossed over his barrel chest, mouth downturned beneath his grey peppered beard.

"Bobby?" Sam whispered, easing himself upright, slowly.

"Honestly, I leave you idjits alone for five minutes and you start tryin' to rain down hell on everyone" Bobby huffed, his scowl prominent but not unfriendly.

"It wasn't like that" Sam replied quietly, casting his eyes down.

"Then tell me what it was like" Bobby prodded. Sam bit his lip, teeth gnawing at the chapped skin.

"I can't. I just…" Sam paused, unable to find the words. Images tried to rise, quick flashes that he mentally shoved back down. "I tried so hard Bobby. For _so long_. I just couldn't do it anymore."

"So you _gave up_?! Since when do we quit in this family?" Bobby barked, making Sam flinch. He didn't reply. He couldn't. "You've pulled some damned stupid moves in the past – hell knows you've been in this mess before – but you always knew what was right deep down. I always believed you did. But this time? This time you went too far, Sam. You put yourself in front of everyone else. In front of the world. Dean. Cas. Me."

Sam shook his head, still unable to meet his eye. "No."

"Lookit me, boy" the older hunter ordered, waiting for Sam to raise his eyes. He glared across at him. "What part of you thought that _any_ of us would accept you sayin' yes to Lucifer?"

"You weren't there. None of you were" Sam retorted, a spark of fire in his tone.

"Bullshit. You know I keep tabs on you up there, even after you left me with those damned angels, who, it turns out, don't take well to souls gettin' out and bustin' out the Scribe of God. Hell, I paid for your balls up then and the whole world nearly did this time. When're you gonna learn, Sam? This ain't all about you. In our line of work, someone else always pays when you make a crappy decision. I thought I taught you that. Hell, you made enough mistakes along the way to know it yourself."

Throughout Bobby's speech, Sam could feel himself shrinking. It wasn't so much what he said; it was his tone. So full of bitter disappointment, like Sam had just continuously let him down. He had. He knew that. Even when he tried to make things right, he just made them worse.

"I can't stand seein' what you do to yourself, Sam," Bobby sighed, readjusting his cap. "You know what the worst bit is? Knowin' how much you like how you feel on that poison."

Sam's head snapped up.

"No, that's not true! I didn't want it; I never wanted it" he insisted, voice breaking. Bobby shook his head, rising out of the seat.

"I wish I could believe that; I really do, Sam. But you're just lyin' to yourself. I can't stand seein' you do this – lettin' yourself become one of the things we're meant to hunt" he murmured as he stepped towards the door. Sam scrambled out of bed, ripping at the sheets that tangled around his legs.

"No, Bobby, wait! Please!" he shouted, stumbling to the door after the hunter. As he reached it, it slammed shut. He grabbed the handle, pulling at it furiously. It didn't budge. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck, a cool shiver stalking up his spine. He stood still, unable to turn around. Afraid of what he knew was there in the shadows. Watching him. He rattled the door handle again. Still it didn't budge. He slammed his fist into it, banging loudly.

"Dean!" he yelled, stomach plunging in fear when he felt cold breath prickling across his neck.

oOo

 **Not the longest, but you know me – they'll get longer over time! Wanted to get this out there quicker than usual.**

 **Please review!**


	3. Demons That You Won't Believe

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/favourited/followed so far!**

oOo

 _"Mouth so full of lies, tend to black your eyes"_

 _\- The Day That Never Comes, Metallica_

oOo

"Dean!" The booming yell had the oldest Winchester surging to his feet, chair scraping across the hardwood floor of the library. Cas was hot on his heels as he rushed down the corridor again, the lights flashing like Morse code as he ran. He heard the panic in Sam's tone, the frantic banging of a fist against the wooden door.

"Sam!" he shouted back, twisting the handle. Nothing happened. He rattled it uselessly, the door refusing to budge. Turning sideways, Dean rammed himself into it, shouldering it violently. It barely shook. Sam's banging stopped.

oOo

"Sam!" Dean's reply was muffled on the other side of the door which Sam clawed at desperately until he saw his breath escaping in plumes as the temperature plummeted. The hairs on the nape of his neck were stood rigid, a tremble sliding smoothly down his spine, pooling fear into his gut.

 _Don't turn around._

It was ridiculous; he was a Winchester. He knew everything that hid under the bed, went bump in the night and lurked in the closet. And yet, the same intuition, the same knowledge, told him what was behind him now, breath whispering against his neck.

"You're not making this any fun" a voice grumbled, confirming his fears. He could almost hear the mocking pout in the tone. The beating on the other side of the door continued; Dean and Castiel's shouts quieter than before. He flinched when a hand gripped his shoulder, not tightly, but the touch was still oppressive. Possessive. It stayed there, heavy, unmoving as he fought to control his breathing which was hitching in his throat.

He was whipped around, the hand's owner finally tired of waiting for him to quell his fears, to fight back. His back was pressed against the door, the faint vibration of Dean's attempts to break in rippling through.

"Is saying no to me again everything you dreamed it would be?" Lucifer whispered, bringing his face uncomfortably close to Sam's. He was back in his original vessel, Nick. The Winchester screwed his eyes shut, stretching himself up to avoid the unwanted proximity. "Was your reunion with Dean _magical?_ Did you have a broment? I bet you had _such_ a broment. I'm surprised you're not out there polishing each other's guns or whatever it is you two do for fun" Lucifer smirked, enjoying Sam's obvious revulsion at his intended innuendo. "But wait," the archangel gasped dramatically, eyes wide as he morphed into Vince Vincente, "you still haven't got past the fun dry-out period, have you? Tell me Sam," he leaned in conspiratorially, yanking the hunter down to his level and locking eyes with him. "Do you wish you'd said yes, yet?"

Sam turned hard, fever-reddened eyes on him but said nothing. What was there to say? He ached with an agony that couldn't be suppressed, his mind constantly playing tricks on him. He couldn't even be sure that Lucifer _wasn't_ there. Logically, he knew the archangel wasn't, but logic didn't matter. So he kept to his stoic silence, afraid of the answer he would give. Lucifer's eyes narrowed.

With a bored flick of his wrist, he flung the hunter across the room. Sam landed heavily against his desk, gasping when he hit the corner, the sharp edge smacking into his ribs. His hand snaked around to protect his chest as he struggled to his knees, looking up through the locks of hair that fell forward over his eyes. A pair of tan heels approached him. Toni's body leaned over him, Lucifer's smile cruel.

"How about in this body? Wanna say yes now? She would've you know. Over and over _and over,_ " he goaded, arching himself suggestively. Disgusted, Sam looked away, feeling his heart ram itself against his chest as the sight of Toni brought forth a horde of memories he couldn't deal with. His voice caught in his throat, paralysed.

oOo

"Goddammit, Sam, open the damned door!" Dean roared, whacking his now bruised and aching shoulder into the door again.

"Move" Cas ordered, pulling the other man out of the way. He raised a hand, palm open, concentrating directly on the door. The wood screeched and groaned, shuddering on its hinges as the angel tried to manipulate it. He frowned, concentrating harder. The structure whined under the pressure he was exerting yet it refused to move. He dropped his hand, scowling darkly. "I don't know how-" he began, an almighty crash interrupting him as the door suddenly exploded outwards, wood splintering, Sam landing in the corridor or, more precisely, on Dean, knocking him to the floor.

Sam choked, completely winded this time, fighting to draw a breath into lungs that had locked. He watched, horrified as Lucifer stepped through the threshold, standing over him, flicking his long blonde hair back over his shoulder. A hand gripped his arm and he snapped his gaze to his right, horrified to see Lucifer again, this time as Nick, latching onto him. He yanked his arm away, shying to the left. He bumped into something else – another hand landing on his shoulder. Sam looked to the left, eyes widening when Vince grinned at him.

"What's the matter, Sam?" Vince asked him, voice soft, his grin vicious.

"Get off me!" Sam cried, snatching his arm away again.

Dean looked over Sam's head at Castiel, brows furrowed. He made to reach a hand out again, stopping before he touched him when Sam flinched at the suggested contact. Sam gasped, grasping his head, wincing as pain throbbed through his temple. The ground began to tremble, a hard rumble that tremored beneath their feet. Dean looked at Cas in alarm.

"Sam! Calm down; it's just us" Dean urged, hands fluttering uselessly, wanting to touch his brother, afraid of what would happen if he did. The rumbling increased, making the shades on the hall lights tinkle in their fittings. Blood dribbled from Sam's nose. A light bulb burst.

Without warning, Cas' hands shot forward, one yanking Sam's arm down, the other pressing two fingers to his forehead as the other lights blew, plunging them into semi-darkness. Sam's eyes rolled back into his head, Dean just managing to catch him as he slumped backwards, cradling him in his arms. The rumbling stopped.

Dean scowled at Cas.

"What did you expect, Dean?" Cas growled, standing up over them both, knowing exactly what angered him. "Couldn't you feel the power coming from him? Sam's condition is dangerous and unpredictable; we've never done this after he's consumed so much blood. Do you want him to destroy the whole bunker with us all in it? He's just proved he's capable."

Dean's jaw worked, the muscles twitching. "He wouldn't. You had no right."

"He _could_. At the moment, he doesn't know what he's doing and, deep down, you know that too. What is he going to have to do to make you see that?"

The oldest Winchester looked away, refusing to answer. Guilt wracked him. Sam trusted him and he wouldn't break that trust.

They would find another way.

oOo

 **Gatwick Airport, London**

 _"Final boarding call for passengers of the British Airways flight number BA7983 to Kansas City."_

The soft feminine voice echoed throughout the departure lounge which teemed with swarms of people as they rushed, ambled or procrastinated, most getting in the way of each other. Thomas cast a scrutinising gaze over them all; Toni had always hated the airport. Large crowds of hollering, whining civilians got on her nerves. Thomas couldn't blame her. Most of these people were sheep: bleating about nothing and blind to the things that really mattered. Regret tugged at him, making him wistful. Most of them should have been dead by now, slaughtered by Lucifer in his bid to purge the world.

"Thomas?" The voice was gentle, nudging him from his reverie. Anna looked back at him from across the boarding desk where a woman in a smart navy suit looked at him expectantly, her smile plastered in place.

"I do apologise" he murmured with a soft smile as he stepped forward, handing her his passport. "Lost in thoughts of a better time."

"Something I think we're all guilty of now and again" the attendant chuckled, scanning his boarding pass. "Is your trip business or pleasure?"

"Strictly business, I'm afraid. I need to collect something that was taken. Put the opposition back in their place as it were."

"Ah. Well, I hope you're successful" she replied, handing him back his passport and boarding pass.

"Oh, I intend to be. Thank you" he nodded, giving her a polite smile as he walked through, joining Anna as they entered the tunnel leading to the aircraft.

It felt good to have a clear objective again.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Castiel had gone, claiming an errand to do with the search for Lucifer, but Dean knew better. After they'd hauled Sam back into bed, removing the remnants of the door that was hanging off, their words had been heated, raised voices moving away from Sam. They had come to an impasse, both too stubborn to back down. Dean knew what was best for his brother and that was the end of it.

He sat stretched out on his bed, door wide open, the CD player next to his bed playing his favourite Metallica compilation. The Day That Never Comes rose up through the speakers, the soft guitar solo at the beginning drifting lightly through the room. Normally he'd play it loud – it wasn't the type of music that should be listened to quietly – but everything felt like it had to be quiet. He was constantly on edge, waiting for Sam to need him. He'd already been in to check on him four times in the last hour. Obsessive didn't quite cover it. Each time he'd gone in, Sam had been sleeping soundly for the first time since they'd got back. Begrudgingly, Dean was almost grateful to Cas for it. That still didn't mean taking away Sam's choices was right.

He sat there, stretched out, letting the music wash over him, granting him a few moments peace.

oOo

Consciousness returned slowly, the fog in his head slowly dissipating, lifting and clearing from the edges of his mind. Cracking his eyes open, Sam peered through the slits in his vision, relieved to see he was alone. Light pooled in through the open doorway – where the hell was the door? – spilling gently onto the floor. He blinked properly, raising a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. Stretching out, he winced, feeling a sharp pain in his side. Probing lightly with his fingers, he winced at the tenderness around his ribs which sported an ugly purple bruise when he lifted his shirt to look. He couldn't remember doing it. Taking stock of the feeling in the rest of his body, he felt nothing else untoward. In fact, he felt good. Refreshed. The heat that had been sitting behind his eyes had gone, the throbbing headache too.

Flinging back the sheets, Sam sat up, wobbling slightly when he stood. Okay, he wasn't perfect, but he felt a hell of a lot better than he had done. The stone floor was cold beneath his feet as he padded towards the door, running a hand back through fluffy hair. His door was lying propped up against the wall in the partial darkness. Sam frowned; he didn't remember the lights breaking. Yawning widely, he rubbed the back of his neck, walking down the hall, heading for the kitchen. Dean's door was open, Metallica playing quietly, and he gave a sleepy wave without looking in.

Stepping down the stairs into the kitchen, the hunter looked around, crinkling his nose in disgust at the heaped pile of dishes. He couldn't remember when he'd last cleared anything away in the kitchen; it'd obviously been a while. Shuffling to the fridge, he tugged it open, disgruntled by the nearly empty shelves.

"How you feelin' Sammy?" Dean's voice wafted over his shoulder as he stared at the fridge, willing something to appear.

"We really need to do a food run" he grumbled, snatching the packet of coffee and closing the door.

"Yeah, well, we've been a bit preoccupied" Dean replied, leaning casually against the wall by the coffee pot. Sam nodded, a jolt shocking through him when he made eye contact with his brother. He got a hold of himself, grabbing the coffee pot and heading to the tap.

"Grab some clean mugs – if you can find any" he said, voice coming out high, strangled as he made a show of running the tap. Dean nodded, black eyes flashing, clearly unaware that Sam had noticed as he stalked past. Sam waited. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw his brother's back was turned as he reached into one of the cupboards for mugs. Moving on instinct, Sam launched himself, smashing the coffee pot across the back of Dean's head. The glass shattered as the hunter crumpled to the floor. Sam cursed, dropping the handle of the pot, the plastic clanking loudly on the stone floor. He turned and ran, hurrying to their equipment room. He wouldn't have long.

Grabbing a pair of handcuffs, he raced back to the kitchen, relieved to see Dean lying where he'd left him. Approaching cautiously, Sam nudged him with a foot.

Nothing.

He bent down, grabbing Dean's left wrist quickly, snapping one cuff around it as he grabbed the other, securing the second cuff to his other wrist with the metal pole of the kitchen counter between his arms. Sam scrambled away, sitting on the floor staring at his brother's unconscious form. They'd cured him! Dean couldn't be a demon again; he couldn't – wouldn't – believe it. If he hadn't stared into the endless black encasing Dean's usually warm green eyes, he wouldn't have done.

How could he put Dean through this all again?

He had no choice though; if Dean was a demon, he had to be cured. Sam couldn't lose his brother again. Not when he could change it.

Getting to his feet, he staggered out into the hall, heading for his files in the main library. Nausea filled him, roiling in his empty stomach. He'd give anything not to have to do this. How did it even happen? Hadn't the cure worked properly the first time? Sam yanked on the second drawer down on the filing cabinet open, flicking through the files quickly, his eyes scanning the labels. He stopped, half pulling one out, checking it. Satisfied he had the right one, he hurried through the other side of the bunker, heading for their dungeon (as Kevin had so aptly put it). It had been sealed for a while; they had had no need of it. The hunter pulled on the shelves, opening the space up and switching on the lights. The chair at the centre still sat in the middle of a Devil's Trap, demon chains left around its base. He needed to get Dean in here before he could get the purified blood. He really needed Cas but the angel wasn't well – he needed to concentrate on getting his Grace back. Sam could handle this. Putting the file on the table, he picked up the warded handcuffs and left.

Edging back along the hall, he concentrated his hearing. Metallica's Enter Sandman floated to him quietly, the CD player still going in Dean's room. Everything else was silent save for the sound of his own breathing. Rounding the corner, he stepped into the kitchen.

And stopped.

The room was empty – the silver handcuffs lying open on the floor. His heart skipped a beat.

"Sammy…" the voice crooned, echoing throughout the bunker. Sam jumped, slipping into the kitchen and pressing himself up against the wall, making himself as invisible as he could. He held his breath, swallowing the panic that was rising in his throat. "C'mon little brother, let's play a game" Dean's voice called, gruff and mocking. A scraping sound, like metal on plaster screeched through the hall, sending Sam's heart thumping. He knew that sound.

A hammer.

He couldn't do this. Not again. He looked around frantically, not even sure what he was looking for. His fingers clenched and he looked down, realising that he only had the demon cuffs with him; he needed a weapon. Where the hell was the Kurdish blade? Sam nearly groaned aloud when he realised. The Impala. They'd been on a hunt. Stuffing the cuffs in his back pocket, he listened again, trying to decide which direction the scraping noise was coming from.

"C'mon, Sammy; it's no fun when you don't play along. I've even got a new proposition for you."

Darting out from the kitchen, Sam dashed out and left, stopping and sheltering in his brother's room.

"What could you possibly want to offer me?" he shouted back, letting his voice carry before running again. He made it into the library before Dean's voice floated back.

"Don't be coy, Sammy; I know what you want."

"I _want_ my brother back" he retorted as he studied the library, calculating how long it would take for him to get across the space. Dean's dark chuckle was full of malice.

"When will you get tired of lyin' to yourself? That's not want you really want. You want what's _in_ me. You want blood." Sam moved, feet slapping against the floor as he sprinted towards the door to the garage. A hand grabbed his upper arm, yanking him to a halt, his brother leaning in close, whispering in his ear.

"I want to give it to you."

oOo

Dean groaned, wincing when he felt cold seeping into his cheek. His head throbbed painfully, a damp warmth spreading just behind his right ear. He moved to touch it and found his hands didn't cooperate. Opening his eyes, the hunter lifted his head.

"Son of a bitch" he growled, staring at his own cuffed hands wrapped around a metal pole. Wincing, he pulled himself up, glass tinkling around him as he sat up. The smashed coffee pot pieces were strewn across the floor. He'd been glad to see Sam up and about off his own accord – relieved even. Now he cursed himself. Dean couldn't understand what would force Sam to attack, but, whatever it was, it wouldn't be good. Pulling himself up, using the pole for support, the cuff clinked against it. Reaching awkwardly into his jeans pocket, he pulled out his set of lock picks. Sam must've been out of it if he hadn't even confiscated them from him. He set to work on the locks.

oOo

Sam forcefully jerked his elbow up and backwards, catching the demon straight in the nose, snapping his head backwards. Blood spurted as Demon Dean let go of him, hands cupping his face. Sam shot forward, bolting through the door and up the steps into the garage. The lights flickered on overhead, revealing the bunker's collection of classic cars. The Impala sat shining in the middle, perfectly cleaned and gleaming.

"Sammy?" he ignored the call again, rushing to the trunk.

oOo

"Sammy?" Dean shouted, running through the bunker, searching desperately. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, no idea where his delusional brother would go. The library was empty, everything where it should be except for one of the filing cabinets which had its second drawer open. The hunter slowed, caution filling him. He listened, hearing nothing. Proceeding through the library, he peered around, alarming filling him when he saw the door to the garage open. He ran through, taking the steps two at a time.

oOo

Sam managed to extract the knife just as the demon descended on him. He slashed at his brother warningly. Demon Dean grinned.

"You don't really wanna use that on me, Sammy" he laughed, arrogance pouring from him in waves.

"No, I don't," Sam replied, keeping the knife raised, the Impala at his back, eyes fixed on the imposter. He absorbed Demon Dean's air of confidence, noting the long, clawed hammer hanging from his left hand, seemingly loosely but he could see the tautness in his arm. "But you're not well, Dean. You don't want this. Let me help you."

oOo

"How could you help me?" Dean asked, confusion colouring his voice, furrowing his brow. Sam swayed lightly on his feet, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. His eyes were dark and bloodshot, unfocused. The hunter had no idea what he'd walked in on. Sam kept the knife raised as he reached into his back pocket with his other hand, pulling out the warded cuffs which they kept in the dungeon. He held them up. Dean stared at them, incredulous. "You expect me to put them on?"

oOo

"I want to help you, Dean and I know, deep down, you want me to. Please. Don't make this harder than it has to be" Sam implored, shifting uneasily. He wished Castiel was here. Staring down Demon Dean was like facing off against a viper; one wrong move and he was dead. The demon sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. He held out a hand. Sam hesitated.

"You win, Sammy" he sighed, taking a small step forward. Sam reached out, knife still raised, the cuff open as he aimed for his brother's wrist.

oOo

Dean tensed, regret filling him before he'd even moved. Sam edged forward, cuff and weapon raised. Dean put out his hand, letting the metal come within centimetres of his wrist before he twisted, snatching hold of the cuffs and turning it back on his brother, snapping it around his arm.

"No!" Sam gasped, slashing at him with the knife, narrowly missing Dean's cheek as he dodged. He grabbed Sam's other wrist, slamming it against the side of the Impala, forcing him to drop the weapon. Despite his fever, Sam fought viciously as Dean grappled with him, trying to snare his other wrist with the cuff.

"Dammit, Sam, stop!" he shouted, panic in his own voice as Sam tried to wrench away, fighting and kicking. Dean twisted to the side, kneeing the back of Sam's legs, dropping him to the ground. The older Winchester looped his arm around Sam's neck, squeezing his carotid arteries. Sam's hands flailed, batting at his arm as he held on. "I'm sorry," Dean choked, repeating it over and over softly in his brother's ear, Sam's hair tickling his cheek. He felt his brother's grasp on his arm slacken. Moments later, Sam's whole body slumped. Dean let go, his arm dropping to around Sam's chest, pulling him to him as guilt ate gnawed at his gut.

Cas had been right.

oOo

Hauling his gigantic brother back through the bunker was no easy task, but he managed, fuming with himself the whole time. He just hoped Sam would forgive him when the time came. Dean doubted that Sam would remember what he'd done, but when the detox finished, he'd be pissed that he was restrained. That was a best-case scenario. The likelihood that he woke up and panicked…

Dean couldn't think about it.

He finished wrapping a soft cloth around Sam's wrist protectively before closing the warded cuff around it. Both chains were long and bolted to the floor, giving Sam full flexibility in the chair and room to stand and manoeuvre within the Devil's Trap that was marked on the floor. There was no reason to restrain him further. Dean slid down against the wall, elbows resting on his raised knees as he ran his hands through his hair. Pressing play on the CD player he'd collected earlier, he turned it down low, letting it play just loud enough to dispel the oppressive silence.

Then he waited.

oOo

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Sam flinched, jerking bodily awake, alert in an instant. His eyes snapped down when his arms didn't move, horrified to see the ropes wrapped over his wrists on either side securing him to the chair. Panic clawed at him, scrambling up through his throat as a tiny whimper. He tugged desperately, muscles taut in his arms but the rope didn't budge. When he tried to lean forward, something choked him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a thick chain reaching from the floor all the way up to his neck. An image of Crowley, sat in a church, chained and collared surged to the front of his mind. Oh god.

 _Hey I'm your life, I'm the one who takes you there._

The music penetrated his senses softly as Dean crouched down in front of him, black eyes grinning up at him.

"No" Sam moaned, squirming miserably. This couldn't be happening. Where was Cas?

"You didn't give me any choice, Sammy" the demon sighed, rising to his full height in front of his brother. "But don't worry – I'm gonna cure you."

"I don't- you can't do this!" Sam groaned, his eyes wide, panicked, his own pupils huge. He watched, horrified, as Demon Dean pulled a syringe off the small table, making a show of balling his own fist and sticking it into his arm. Sam's eyebrows knitted together in confusion as he pulled the plunger back, filling the syringe with a swirling dark liquid, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Sam, a grin spread wide across his features. He extracted it and moved towards his squirming brother. He grabbed Sam's face, digging his fingers in painfully to Sam's cheeks.

 _They'll betray. I'm you're only true friend now._

"I know it doesn't seem like it but I know what's best for you, Sammy," the demon insisted, holding the syringe close to his face, enjoying Sam's wide, frightened gaze fixate on it.

"You can't…please! Don't do this, Dean, don't. I know you're in there somewhere. Please" Sam begged, hot tears welling at the corners of his eyes.

"It's okay Sammy; I'll take care of you. I've got everythin' you need. Soon we'll be together again – properly – as brothers." Demon Dean whispered, releasing his hold.

"No! My brother would never do this to me. Stop" Sam whimpered, tugging futilely against the ropes.

oOo

Dean sat, shocked, unable to move. He couldn't. The guilt swallowed him at Sam's words. He knew Sam was delusional, but still his words hurt. _My brother would never do this to me._ This wasn't what Dean wanted. Not at all. But what choice did he have? He couldn't control Sam, couldn't stop him from attacking him – or worse – leaving the bunker. The way he refused to even look at Dean, who hadn't braved going near him, made his heart ache. Sam was completely tense, his hands gripping the armrests until his knuckles were white and the muscles stood out beneath his skin. His back was rigid, neck straining. Dean knew this stage; if it wasn't for the warded chains, the blood would probably have started flinging him across the room again. Instead it seemed to be internalising, making Sam's body painfully tense as it fought the effects.

"It'll be okay, Sammy. Trust me" he mumbled, his words hollow, unconvincing even to himself.

oOo

"Trust me" Demon Dean smiled, bending down and turning the dial up on the CD player in the corner, Metallica blaring louder and louder until it was deafening. Sam winced as the music thrummed in his ears, booming through him. The speakers shouldn't get that loud, a part of him knew that, but still the demon kept turning the dial. The chair, the floor, began to vibrate, as the bass tremored through.

 _I'M YOUR DREAM. I'M YOUR EYES. I'M YOUR PAIN._

His brother sauntered back over to him, grabbing his arm just above the ropes, holding him still.

"No! Don't!" Sam shouted, but he couldn't even hear himself over the music that sent painful tremors throughout his body. He writhed, struggling desperately as the needle approached his skin. He didn't want this! His brother as a demon and him on demon blood? Bile rose in his throat at the throat. He couldn't even comprehend the damage they would do together. It couldn't happen. He couldn't let it! He shouted and yelled desperately, the sound lost even in his own ears as the needle slid in.

He couldn't stop it.

The plunger was pressed, the demon blood slithering smoothly into his veins. Everything burst into flame, his insides reacting immediately, almost enjoying it, letting it flush through him. His heart pounded, sending it reeling around his whole body as the bass of the music set every nerve on fire. He'd been clean for so long. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes as he screamed in agony.

This was it.

 _I'M INSIDE: OPEN YOUR EYES. I'M YOU._

oOo

 **I hope that didn't get too confusing – trying to write two Deans is hard!**

 **Please review!**


	4. Way Down We Go

**Okay, so I'm a little nervous about this one. Enjoy (and don't hate me)!**

oOo

 _"They will run you down, down 'til you fall_

 _And they will run you down, down 'til you go_

 _Yeah so you can't crawl no more."_

 _\- Way Down We Go, Kaleo_

oOo

The Men of Letters' dungeon was quiet, finally. Darkness filled the empty corners, deep shadows cast by the dimmed spotlights overhead stretched out languidly. Dean had tweaked the lights, fixing it so that only the two on the sides were illuminated, leaving the other four off. Despite the blankness of the walls, the room was surprisingly warm: yet another mystery of the bunker that they couldn't explain but accepted nonetheless.

Sam's cries and screams for his brother to stop, to let him go, that he didn't want this life, had ruined Dean's resolve. He didn't know what Sam was hallucinating but he did know it involved him. The idea that an imaginary version of himself was creating such suffering in his little brother left him cold. He had finally cracked, stumbling from the room when he couldn't take the wails of despair anymore, sobbing brokenly out in the hall where Sam couldn't hear him.

He'd waited so long to get Sam back: fought so hard, braved all the heartache and the pain, knowing that he _would_ get Sam back. But he hadn't realised the implications; that he might not get _Sam_ back, not wholly. Dean knew the detox wouldn't last forever – it never did – but it sure as hell felt like it. Yet that wasn't the worst of it. Even when the demon blood was finally out of his system, Sam had been broken. It would be Dean's job to put him back together again and, god help him, he didn't know how.

 _I'm not strong enough._

He hadn't felt so inept since Sam had been institutionalised all those years ago when Dean had tried everything he could to save Sam from the torment cause by his visions of Lucifer. Cas had taken it all away, but he couldn't do that this time. The tiniest of voices in the back of his mind whispered that he could, but the overwhelming guilt that struck with it brought fresh waves of tears as he curled himself up into a ball, hugging his knees and resting his forehead on them. He would never do that to Sam again; they would never meddle with his mind. He'd learned that with Gadreel.

He'd failed before he'd even begun.

Finally, he got angry. Enraged. The red veil descended and he destroyed the inside of one of the storerooms. Literally. Armed with a long handled claw hammer he found lying around, he vented his frustration, his helplessness, his guilt, on the boxes and crates, not caring what was inside. By the time he'd finished, he was in a swathe of splintered wood, glass fragments and twisted metal. A sheen of sweat coated his skin as weariness descended.

The wails had stopped.

He had returned to the dungeon to find Sam slumped in the chair. Checking his pulse and his pupils revealed that the stress of the visions had gotten to be too much for his struggling body. Fatigue, mercifully, had robbed him of consciousness.

The older Winchester had draped a soft blanket over him, before curling himself up on the floor, watching his brother. Eventually, his own weariness caught up and he slept on the cold stone surface.

oOo

Sam jerked awake, a guttural moan escaping his throat as the pounding headache thrummed behind his eyes. His head rolled up, easing the strain in the back of his neck after sitting with his head lolling forward for so long. He was relieved to find that the metal collar had been removed; it probably would've strangled him in his sleep. A cold breeze drifted across his skin, making the tiny hairs on his arms rise even though his insides burned. Cracking open his eyes, he glanced around, relieved to finally be alone. The demon version of his brother had continued to inject him with his own blood over and over, leaving only a score of minutes between each ministration, until Sam's exhausted body shut down and everything went dark.

The lights were bright overhead, the spotlight above him almost painfully dazzling but at least it was quiet. Giving his wrists an experimental tug, he found the rope around his right wrist had started to go slack. Grunting with exertion, he wriggled his arm, bending and pulling, trying to get it to loosen further, all the while keeping his hearing tuned for sounds of his brother's return.

It took longer than he'd have liked, but – finally – Sam pulled his wrist through. Triumph filled him as he grappled with the knot securing his other wrist, finally freeing himself. Sam stood up, ignoring the nausea the movement brought with it, as he stumbled quietly to the edge of the shelves that concealed the dungeon. They'd been left open, but Sam was cautious; he hunkered down, peering through the boxes towards the doorway, checking for his brother.

No one was there.

He could feel the demon blood humming inside of him but he knew it wasn't enough to tackle the demonic version of his brother. It would be like going up against Alistair or Lillith when he wasn't fully juiced the first time around. At most, it would cause a mild irritation for the demon, nothing more. No, he needed to escape but Demon Dean wouldn't let him go easily.

Sam needed to trap him.

Edging out, he poked his head out into the hall, listening. Still nothing. He walked slowly, silently, down the hall, slipping into the next unlocked room. The door clicked softly behind him as he shut it, leaving him alone in the darkness. Mentally, Sam mapped the bunker, considering his best options for both trapping the demon and escaping. Besides the dungeon, there was nowhere else that had the power to secure a demon. The Devil's Trap in the dungeon was useless having been broken by his brother. But…

That didn't mean he couldn't make one.

oOo

Dean yawned, waking when he heard soft mumbling noises coming from Sam. Propping himself up and rubbing his dead, frozen arm, the hunter studied Sam carefully. He was still asleep, head lolling forward uncomfortably, the corner of the blanket slipping from his shoulder. They needed a better solution than the chair; Sam couldn't stay sat down all the time he slept and Dean wasn't going to make him sleep on the cold floor either. He remembered seeing some old camping beds in one of the storage rooms. It would work for now. Sam's expression was strained, even in sleep, clearly caught in a dream. Dean got up, carefully pulling the blanket back up and tucking it in around his shoulders, hoping that he was dreaming about something good for a change before he left to get the camp bed.

oOo

Sam dropped the brush back in the jar, wiping his paint-spattered hands on his jeans. Dragging the rug back into place, he felt his heartbeat triple. He'd set the trap. Now he needed to be the bait. Jogging softly from the room, he headed back towards the main living quarters. He couldn't be sure exactly where his brother would be. He wasn't expecting to round the corner and smack straight into him, but then, neither was Dean. Sam backpedalled, stumbling as he turned.

"Who let you out of your cage?" Dean growled, grabbing at him, his arm snaking around Sam's chest and yanking him back. Sam grappled with him, slamming his heel down on his brother's foot and viciously smacking his head back, hearing the satisfying crunch of Dean's nose breaking under the impact. It was enough to get him to let go – and anger him. Sam ran, racing down the corridor, arms pumping, hair flying.

"Oh Sammy, you're just so much more fun when you fight back" Dean called, making Sam's gut twist. He kept running, listening to the sound of pursuit close behind him. The hall twisted around, leading back towards the control room. He bypassed the rug, grabbing the machete that he'd left on the table in front of him. He turned, chest heaving, waiting.

Dean rounded the corner, his steps slowing when he saw Sam had stopped. He wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He grinned, teeth stained crimson from where the headbutt had cut the inside of his lip. "C'mon, Sammy. Don't fight this. We'll make the perfect team. You and me. Fuck saving everyone else. Think of all the fun we'll have" he crooned, prowling forward. Sam kept his gaze up, away from the rug, trained on his brother. The machete's handle was slick beneath his touch.

"It's never gonna happen, Dean. It can't be this way."

"Who says? _God?_ What did he do for us? We were made for this Sam. We're the perfect combination; you get to drink all the blood you want from me and then we can do anythin'. Think of what we could do" Dean continued, stepping closer. One foot landed on the rug. "Think of all the fun we'll have. No more responsibilities. No more guilt." He stepped closer, both feet now on. "What do y'say, Sammy? I'm offerin' you _everythin'."_

"No. You're not. I _want_ my brother. My real brother. And I want out of here" Sam hissed triumphantly when Dean took another step forward and stopped, halted by the invisible barrier. Sam grinned grimly, lowering the machete. His grin dropped when Dean smirked, looking over his shoulder. He heard the impact before he felt something heavy smack the back of his head. He crumpled to his knees, machete flying from his grip. Woozily, he looked up, a petite blonde figure swimming into his vision.

"Sorry, Sam; looks like you're not getting anything you want today" Toni smirked, bring the wooden staff down brutally. Sam's world vanished.

oOo

He was getting pretty sick of waking up feeling nauseous from enforced unconsciousness. When he opened his eyes, Sam quickly turned his head away, blinded by the spotlight. He tried to sit up and couldn't. Looking down the length of his body, he saw a thick leather strap running over his chest, another buckled across his knees so that he couldn't raise his legs and the demon cuffs back around his wrists and ankles. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs. He'd been in this position recently – he knew it – but he couldn't remember when.

"It seems you're getting fond of escape attempts, Sam" a soft, feminine voice chided. Panic rose up. He looked to the left as Toni appeared beside him, her expression stern and disappointed. "You know I hate being disobeyed. I thought I'd taught you that lesson." She reached out, caressing his cheek before running her hand back through his hair, letting the strands trail between her fingers.

"Get off me!" he snapped, wrenching his head away. The cuffs rattled against the edge of the metal table as he jerked his arms, hands clenching into fists.

"Sammy, there's no need to be rude" Dean reprimanded appearing on Sam's left, black eyes flashing dangerously when he looked down slyly at his brother. Claustrophobia gnawed at Sam as his gaze flicked between the two as they looked down at him hungrily. He squirmed, caught between the two of them. Toni kept her hand in his hair as she smiled across the table at Dean who grinned wickedly back. She reached out her other hand, slipping it around Dean's neck, drawing him in over Sam. Horror filled the Winchester as he watched her place a soft kiss on his brother's mouth. He turned his head away, but her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking so that he was forced to look up. To watch his brother deepen the kiss with his tormentor. A deep moan resonated from Dean and it took everything Sam had not to throw up. They pulled apart, foreheads resting together as they looked down at him, Toni's fingers toying with the soft hair at the nape of Dean's neck.

"Do you wanna play?" Dean whispered seductively. Toni's eyes brightened, her teeth bared.

"I think it's time he learned not to run."

oOo

Dean walked back into the room, bowl balanced between his hands and a towel flung over his shoulder. Water sloshed gently in the bowl as he placed it on the table next to the cot. Pulling up his chair, he sat beside his sleeping brother, watching him convulse with small shudders. His temperature had started to spike not long after Dean had got him onto the bed. Dunking the towel in the bowl, he wrung it out, the soft dribbling sound ringing around the room. He placed the damp material across Sam's forehead, hoping to soothe his feverish brow.

oOo

Sam watched nervously as Toni disappeared. He raised his head to follow her movements, but his brother's warm palm pressed down on his forehead, forcing him to lie completely flat. He looked straight up, staring into the amused upside down face that loomed over him.

"Dean, please. Don't let her do this" he implored, hating how weak his sounded but no longer caring. He had to get through to Dean's rational side; it was the only way he was going to get out of this mess.

"Sorry, Sammy, but I promised her a good time and, well…I hate disappointing a pretty face" Dean replied, reaching down the side of the table and pulling up another strap.

"No!" Sam wriggled, trying to move from under his brother's hand. Dean's grip remained firm until he shifted the strap across Sam's forehead, buckling it to the other side of the table. Try as he might, Sam couldn't move his head in any direction. Horror filled him when he heard footsteps coming back in, the gentle sloshing of water meeting his ears. The sound ripped terror through him without reason. The whole thing felt familiar, including the bite of his fear, but the memory eluded him. He struggled, writhing desperately, knowing that he needed to get out.

Grey eyes slid to the side when he caught a glimpse of Toni placing a white ceramic bowl on a side table next to him. She smiled down at him, satisfied to see the panic dilating his pupils.

"Now, Sam. Let's begin. Are you going to say yes?" she asked, her clipped British accent adding to his apprehension.

"Yes to what? I don't know what you want" he pleaded, wincing when the cuffs bit into his wrists.

"Has he always been this stubborn?" she asked, looking over him to his brother. Dean shrugged.

"It's his one endurin' quality. Drives me nuts."

"Well. Let's see if we can do something about that, shall we?" Toni smiled tightly, nodding once at the demon as she wrung out a towel that she'd left pooling in the bowl. The soft dribbling noise echoed around the room. Dean stepped back into Sam's line of vision. Roughly grabbing his jaw, he caught Sam by surprise, prising his jaw open and stuffing a dry cloth in his mouth. Sam moaned, trying to wrench his head, but couldn't with the strap holding him down. Dean idly stroked both of his cheeks in small circular motions with his thumbs, enjoying the chaos of fear that twisted in his brother's eyes. He leaned back, but kept his hands on Sam's face as the white towel descended, covering his face. Sam jerked, terror clawing up his throat when he struggled to breathe. He couldn't see anything. All he could hear was the sloshing of the water as the bowl was moved.

Ice cold water poured onto him, soaking through the already drenched towel, into the dry cloth in his mouth. He fought and bucked, coughing and choking, trying to suck in air but still the water came down. Pouring endlessly. Memories of Toni in his cell shot forwards in his mind's eye as he drowned.

He was going to die this time.

oOo

Alarm fired through Dean the moment Sam started choking. His mouth was open wide, long broken gasps like he was suffocating ripped through his throat. Dean was up and pulling him onto his side, holding him by the shoulder gently but firmly as he choked and coughed in fits and spurts. He couldn't be choking on anything; he hadn't eaten or had anything to drink for hours. The awful ragged sound tore through Dean as Sam shuddered beneath his touch.

It had to be part of whatever was going on inside his head. Dean didn't know what Sam was doing to himself but it couldn't be good. The possibilities made Dean's blood run cold.

oOo

The cloth disappeared, leaving Sam coughing and spluttering pitifully, unable to turn his head to clear his airways. He sucked in a shaky breath through his nose, blinking away the water that had mixed with his tears on his eyelashes. A guttural moan reached through his agony and his gaze slid to the left. The demon version of his brother had Toni pressed up against the table he was on, his body hard against hers as he kissed her hungrily, the wet towel still in her fist as she grasped the table top, his hands sliding up her back under her shirt. Repulsed, Sam looked away, scrunching his eyes closed. Somewhere, deep inside, a tiny logical voice told him this wasn't real. That it couldn't be. His brother – demon or not – would never be with her. Would never get off on the sight of his suffering. Yet that didn't block out the repugnant sounds of pleasure coming from them.

"Wait, Dean, not yet" she laughed against his mouth, pulling away. Dean growled in frustration. Throwing the towel into the bowl with a wet plopping noise, Toni placed a hand on the demon's chest, rising onto her toes. "Go get it" she whispered in his ear, grazing his jaw with her teeth. He smirked down at Sam before slinking off.

Sam shifted uncomfortably when Toni's hawk-like gaze turned back on him. A savage rawness was bright in her eyes as she lifted herself up onto the table, straddling his stomach, her knees on either side of him. He groaned, trying to buck her off, but the straps held him fast.

"How does it feel, Sam? Having that blood surging through you and knowing you wasted it? I gave you the perfect opportunity to be everything you were meant to be and you squandered it" she murmured as she ran her hands over his chest, smirking when his torso heaved under her touch, his breath hitching in his throat as he panicked. Her very touch made his skin crawl. She leaned up over him, balancing on one hand beside his head and plucking the sodden rag from his mouth. Sam gulped in air, finally able to breathe properly. She traced a finger along his lower lip and he growled, eyes furious and full of loathing.

Footsteps approached again and his brother's hand snaked up Toni's back, making her arch against Sam. She slid her hands along his chest as she sat back up, taking her favourite toy from the demon. Remaining on top of him, she turned the torch on, the brazen snarl of the fire snapping to life. Sam stared, hypnotised by the jet of blue flame that poured forth. Toni twisted her head to the side, capturing Dean's mouth with her own as his hands began to wander. Sam watched, horrified as the torch lowered.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

oOo

Dean jumped when Sam lurched upright with a gasp, his eyes flying open. Grey eyes locked onto the older Winchester who sat on the edge of his cot and Sam scrambled backwards, raising his arms defensively.

"Sammy, it's alright. It's just me; you're safe" Dean soothed, holding his hands up flat, his voice calm even though the sight of his brother's obvious fear made his heart plummet.

Neither of them moved.

Sam waited, expecting his brother to make a move. To let that maniacal grin spread like poison across his solemn features. For the soft emerald eyes to turn black, tainting the concern that pooled in their depths, seemingly genuine. Was it a trick? How could he be sure? Everything had felt so real before…he could still smell the lingering stench of Toni's sickly floral perfume. Yet the fullness of the demon blood that Dean had injected him with was gone. He felt drained; his limbs trembled with the effort to keep him upright.

Slowly – so slowly – Dean moved, keeping his hands up, wincing inwardly when Sam flinched visibly even though he kept his movements fluid, gentle. He kept his gaze fixed on Sam as he leaned down, fingers grasping at the water bottle on the floor. Rising just as slowly, he gave Sam a small, reassuring smile. His little brother's eyes never left him. Uncapping the bottle, Dean offered it. Sam's eyes flickered down to it, mistrust written on his face.

"It's okay, Sam. It's just water," Dean murmured, raising it to his own mouth and taking a long drink. "See?" He offered it again.

Relieved to see no instant reaction – no smoke, no pain, like he had felt when Dean had last given him water – Sam reached out a hand, his movements halting when he saw the chain and cuff dangling from his wrist. "I'm sorry. I had to" Dean whispered, voice breaking. Sam said nothing but reached out for the water bottle. Raising it to his lips hesitantly, he took a tiny sip. Nothing. It tasted normal and nothing burned. Suddenly he couldn't stop. He took long gulps of the cooling liquid, quenching his thirst like a man in a desert, pushing the nauseating vision of his hallucination away when it fought to pull him back under.

Relief filled Dean, letting him relaxed just slightly. He lowered his hands and watched as Sam finished the whole bottle. Holding out his hand, Dean took the empty container.

"How-" Sam cleared his throat, surprised by the gruffness of his own voice, "how long was I out?"

"About twelve hours, I guess. What do you remember?" Dean replied. Terror shot straight back into Sam's eyes, his whole body tensing. "Hey, don't worry; it's not important" Dean said quickly, injecting as much calm into his tone as he could. "How do you feel?"

Sam looked past him, the tension easing from his shoulders as his fingers idly traced the metal on his wrists.

"I don't really know. Not okay. Not awful. Somewhere in between?" he answered, exhausted.

"How about tryin' to eat somethin'? You haven't really eaten anythin' substantial for a couple of days" Dean suggested. Sam nodded wearily. Dean stood up, still slow, still smooth in his movements, afraid that the slightest wrong move would bring that look of fear back into Sam's face. If he was the cause of that fear…he couldn't bear it.

Leaving quickly, he rushed to the kitchen, not wanting to be gone long.

oOo

The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein; as soon as Dean began to think Sam was beginning to relax he'd hear something, sometimes real, sometimes in his head, and the skittish look would come straight back. Dean didn't ask him what he'd seen and Sam didn't volunteer. It was as though he couldn't trust if what was happening was actually real or not. He'd managed a few mouthfuls of the sandwich Dean had brought him, trying again whenever Dean encouraged him.

He'd refused to try and sleep again, afraid of the things he'd see in the dark. Dean couldn't blame him. They sat on the cot together, a deck of cards between them; the only thing Dean seemed to be able to distract Sam with without causing him to panic. The hunter had lost four games in a row that he could have easily won, but Sam needed control over something – even if it was something as simple as a game.

They had barely spoken but the silence wasn't uncomfortable. When Sam wanted to talk, he did; Dean didn't push. They were on their second game of 66, Dean sat in the chair while Sam lay on his side, head resting on his pillows, when Dean saw the colour bleed out of Sam's face, his skin taking on a greyish hue. He sprang up in an instant, grabbing the bucket he'd brought in earlier and sticking it in front of his brother just in time. Sam retched, his whole body heaving as he threw up, leaning over the side of the cot.

Finally.

This was the stage Dean had been waiting for. Sam heaved again, his body convulsing painfully. The pitifully small amount he'd been able to eat came back up, mixed in with a vile blend of water and blood. Their past experiences of Sam's detox had always drawn to a close with this stage. It was awful, painful and, for Sam, downright revolting but they knew what it meant.

"C'mon, it's alright, Sammy. Get it out" Dean said soothingly, rising from his seat. Sam shifted to accommodate him, lifting his head as Dean threw the pillows to one side. He sat at the top of the bed, Sam's head resting in his lap as Dean held the bucket up for him. Retching again, Sam coughed pitifully, a soft moan rising from his throat. Dean brushed his brother's hair back from his face, stroking the smooth strands gently, providing what comfort he could. It may have been the last stage, but that didn't make it easier.

It was going to be a long night.

oOo

 **I figured that the worst thing Sam could see was a version of his brother having anything to do with Toni. I really hope it didn't come across that he was anything other than disgusted by the whole thing.**

 **Please review!**


	5. Hell

_"I know he's living in hell every single day_

 _So I ask, oh God, is there some way for me to take his place?"_

 _\- Permanent, David Cook_

oOo

There was something warm beneath his cheek. The texture was rough, unusual for a pillow. It wasn't spongy enough to be a pillow either, yet somehow it felt more like home, more safe. Sam opened his eyes, waking with a clear mind for the first time in days. He didn't feel rested, not even close, but the fogginess inside his mind, the oppressive cloud that had tainted his world for what had felt like forever, had dissipated, thinning into nothing.

His mind felt like his own.

Raising a hand to rub one eye blearily, he saw the blue texture of the makeshift pillow, realising that it was made of jeans. Memories of the night before slipped to the forefront of his mind. The stomach churning vomiting had felt like it had gone on for hours until he was left retching with nothing more to expel. Dean had stayed with him, hadn't left him, even though watching couldn't have been a pleasant experience. Sam couldn't even remember falling asleep again but Dean, afraid that he would wake his brother, had stayed sat on the cot, cradling his brother's head in his lap.

Behind him, Sam could hear soft, steady breathing. It was a sound that he'd heard for years in hundreds of motel rooms; in the Impala – nearly everywhere. It was the sound of home. Unwilling to move and risk waking Dean, Sam knew how his brother would look. He could picture it exactly: Dean would be lying at an awkward angle on the cot, no doubt like a pretzel, fast asleep in a position few people could tolerate. Yet Dean would rather suffer to make sure that Sam was alright. It was a tiny truth that Sam knew without a doubt and it eased the ache in his heart ever so slightly.

Closing his eyes, Sam dozed again, feeling safe for the first time that he could remember in what felt like a life time.

oOo

His neck and shoulders were on fire, competing with the cramp that twinged in his side. Dean winced as he straightened himself out, neck cracking and popping painfully. He became aware of the lack of weight on his leg, blinking his tired eyes open quickly. Green met grey as Sam gave him a small smile.

"Hey" Sam greeted softly. The youngest Winchester was sat, cross-legged on the cot, fingers idly playing with the battered cards they had used the night before.

"Mornin'" Dean replied, voice thick with sleep. Clearing his throat, he eased himself up into a sitting position. He scrutinised Sam carefully, looking for signs that he was in pain, unfocused – anything that could imply that his long battle with the demon blood was still raging on. "How you feelin'?"

"More like me, I guess. Hungry" Sam replied, his eyes remaining on the cards in front of him as he sorted them into solitaire piles.

"Why didn't you go get somethin'?"

Sam held up his wrists, the demon warded cuffs dangling from each one.

"Shit. Sorry, man" Dean mumbled, guilt piercing through him as he scrambled off the bed to retrieve the keys. "I should've taken them off last night."

"It doesn't matter" Sam said quietly, his voice still too soft for Dean's liking. He reached out for the cuff on Sam's left wrist, dismay tugging at him as he saw his little brother flinch when his fingers brushed against his skin. Sam tried to conceal it, but Dean wasn't fooled.

 _Your brother is damaged in ways even I can't heal._

Castiel's words from so long ago popped to the forefront of his mind as Sam near enough snatched his hands away, recoiling from the cuffs as soon as Dean released him. The detox may have been over, but they were nowhere near the end of Sam's journey to recovery. They'd barely even started and the thought sent a shiver of despair through the hunter. He hid it behind his mask, his smile carefully constructed to reassure Sam.

"C'mon. Let's go see if we can find somethin' edible" he said, rising to his feet and walking towards the door. Sam trailed behind, saying nothing, keeping his distance.

He would be okay. He just needed time. Dean had to believe it.

oOo

 **Kansas City, Kansas**

The room was a warm blend of mustards and deep yellows which were balanced against the dark chocolates of the furniture. A super king bed dominated the centre of the suite, standing tall with crisp white sheets and a yellow bed runner, which matched the walls, draped across the foot of the bed. It was pleasantly cool and quiet inside, the air conditioning making a soft whirring sound; a stark contrast to the cloying heat and bustle of the streets below.

Thomas sat, one leg crossed over the other, in one of the plump hazel armchairs beside the window, facing outwards so that he could enjoy the sunshine that poured in, lightening the room. A cup of tea sat steaming gently on the glass coffee table in front of him as he held a pen aloft over the local paper. On the arm of the chair he had balanced a leather-bound notebook, his careful script etched across its yellowing pages.

A soft knock disturbed the silence, emanating from the adjoining door that connected his suite with the one next to him.

"Come in, Anna" Thomas called, glancing up with a polite smile when she opened the door and slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine, thank you. Already making a start, I see" she replied, sitting down in the neighbouring armchair, tea in hand. She took a small sip, watching Thomas over the rim of the mug.

"You know me: never one to be idle when there's a job to be done" he smiled, placing the newspaper in his lap. He picked up his notebook and passed it to her. Anna put her mug down, taking the notebook in both hands, turning it and quickly scanning over what he'd written. "I've narrowed our choices down to about four," Thomas explained. "I'd like to go through them with you later on if that's alright?"

"Of course. What else do we need to do?" she asked, flipping back a few pages.

"Would you be able to see the concierge about vehicle hire? Something sizeable and practical – not extravagant like the huge monstrosities half the population seem to favour over here. We'll need GPS as well" he replied, taking back the notebook. "I'll start making some calls. I'd like us to be gone before noon preferably and get a bit closer to Lebanon."

"I'll go and see what I can do."

Anna rose and left, her slippered feet shuffling noiselessly against the thick carpet. Thomas put the paper down on the coffee table, picking up his tea as he began writing a new list. Some of his supplies he'd managed to bring from England, but there were other more…intricate items that they required which he wouldn't have been able to get through customs. It was no great matter though; James and Toni's American contacts would be more than willing to assist. Of that, Thomas had no doubt. Loyalty meant everything to him – and to them.

It was a lesson the Winchesters were going to learn.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Dean was hovering.

He didn't mean to – not really. He knew he was doing it and kept chastising himself for doing so. He'd made excuses, endless excuses, to check on Sam. To be in the same room, to pass through, to grab something. It was all smoke and mirrors and they both knew it. Yet, the hunter didn't know what else to do. He wanted to help so desperately. To make the right kind of coffee, find the funniest cat video or the best Game of Thrones fanfiction; anything that would make Sam whole again. It didn't work that way and Dean knew it.

Knew it. Hated it.

It had only been a day since Sam's detox had finally finished and the pair of them had done everything they could to avoid talking about anything Sam had been through. Dean wanted to – desperately wanted to – but he choked on the words whenever he thought about it. Deep down he knew he wasn't ready to hear how his failure had made Sam suffer. The idea that the reality was worse than what he imagined made Dean f+eel nauseous.

Instead he'd mothered his brother, flitting around the bunker getting anything he thought Sam might want or need. Had it been any other time, Sam would've told him to stop fussing, to go and do his own thing. Yet, Sam seemed to know that Dean needed to be in protective big brother mode. He accepted the endless mugs of coffee, tea, offers of homemade burgers, books and Netflix options with the almost eternal patience that he'd always had. They'd finally settled on binge watching The Walking Dead until Sam had fallen into an exhausted sleep and Dean had snuck off, reacquainting himself with Johnny Walker and a glass that was deeper than the bottle.

He'd passed out in the library, oblivious to the world until he'd woken with a start, rushing through to Sam's room, expecting the worst and finding…nothing. Nothing but his brother sleeping. When he checked his watch, Dean was surprised to see it was nearly 10am. The very fact that Sam had slept so late was unusual, but maybe it was just going to be a part of the new routine that they were going to have to get used to for a while.

Lurching to the kitchen, Dean poured a huge glass of water, chasing away the rough dryness of his tongue and the pounding headache that throbbed behind his eyes. Raiding the fridge proved less than fruitful; there was barely anything left.

"Crap" Dean groaned, dismay filling him when he shook the coffee pack and heard barely a rustle. He peered into and saw that the dregs left weren't even enough to make a half decent cup.

"Don't tell me we've actually run out of coffee." Dean turned at the wry voice, crumpling the packet in defeat when he met Sam's soft smile with one of his own. Sam eased himself down onto the bench by the table, his hair fluffy from sleeping, the dark shadow of stubble colouring his cheeks.

"Coffee, food, dreams of some hot girl bringing us either one" Dean grumbled, staring forlornly at the offending fridge.

"Why don't you go get some supplies? You've been stuck in here for days" Sam remarked, running a hand through his hair, pushing it from his eyes.

"You feelin' up for a trip out?"

Sam shook his head.

"Sammy…"

"No, Dean. Not yet. Go without me. Honestly I'll be fine" Sam replied quickly when Dean opened his mouth to protest again.

"I could call Cas, get him to bring some stuff in" Dean suggested, clearly uncomfortable with Sam's suggestion. Sam pulled a face.

"The last time you did that we ended up with a month's supply of beef jerky and decaf" Sam reminded him. Dean shuddered at the memory but his doubt was still clear. "Dean. Go. I'll grab a shower, tidy up in here. It's okay." Dean stood still, still warring within himself. _Stop it_ , he chided himself. He'd promised Sam that he would call the shots and smothering him wasn't giving him that.

"Alright. You got your phone on you?" he asked. Sam nodded, pulling it from his pocket. "I'll be a half hour, maximum. You need anything – and I mean _anything_ – you call me, y'hear? I'll come straight back."

Sam nodded, watching his brother disappear out of the door. Breathing out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagged, the lightness falling from his eyes until they were a stony grey. He'd forgotten how exhausting it was putting up the mask, keeping it up, so that Dean didn't see how far gone he was. Denial was easier than admitting it to himself as well.

Whatever he needed to do, right?

He flinched violently when he heard the door banging shut behind Dean. Sam hated it, hated that every small noise frightened him, made his heart thump in his chest; it was as though he was expecting Toni and Thomas to just reappear. He knew Toni wouldn't – Dean had heard of her death from Jonathan Markham – yet that didn't ease anything for him.

Pushing himself up, he padded through the silent bunker, heading for the showers. The lights flickered on overhead, a gentle buzzing filling the air as he stepped inside. The shower room was long, four cubicles standing on either side with a row of four sinks along the back wall. The curtains were pulled back on the separate cubicles, each one empty. Grabbing his towel, he hung it up on the hook outside the closest cubicle to the door. His shower things were exactly where he'd left them months ago, bottles still half empty. Dean hadn't moved any of it. Reaching in, he turned the dial, snapping his hand back quickly to avoid getting his arm wet. Pulling his shirt up over his head, the hunter shivered when the cool air teased across his bare skin, the water splashing onto his bare feet as he removed the rest of his clothes, folding them neatly and putting them on the shelf just beside the cubicle. He left his phone on the top of the pile.

Steam was rolling out from the cubicle as he stepped inside, putting a hand under the water to test its heat. It was nearly scalding: just how he needed it. Stepping under the fall, he let the water trail up his arms first, before he moved completely under the huge showerhead. It ran in rivulets down through his hair, plastering it to his forehead and neck as the water pounded down on him. He closed his eyes as it ran over his face.

Immediately, her face flashed up beneath his eyelids.

 _She smiled, putting the soaking cloth back over his face, listening with satisfaction to the broken cries that escaped as he choked._

Sam's eyes flew open as he gasped, inadvertently sucking in a mouthful of hot water. He coughed and choked, stumbling backwards out of the water, out of the cubicle, arms spread against the walls, jumping when his exposed back hit the freezing wall behind him. He spun around, eyes wild, chest heaving. Toni's laugh echoed in his mind as he clutched at his head, water running through his fingers from his hair. He lurched forward, grabbing his phone from the top of his clothes. Unlocking it, his thumb hovered over Dean's name. Yet he couldn't do it. Couldn't let his brother see that having a damned shower scared the living hell out of him.

A broken sob escaped his throat as he crouched down, curling into a ball on the shower room floor, squeezing his eyes shut as he cried.

She'd taken everything he had.

oOo

Dean eased the Impala back in through the garage doors, the snarling rumble echoing around the cavernous room. He loved the way she sounded in here. Normally it would only be in tunnels that he could to truly appreciate the way Baby sounded, but in the bunker, he got to experience it every time. It sent chills rippling down his spine. He let her idle a moment longer before cutting the ignition.

The drive had given him the clarity he'd needed. Sam was right; he'd spent too long cooped up in the bunker. Doing something normal, even if it was just a supply run, had made him realise that things would be normal again. Maybe not soon, but they would be. He would make sure of it. Of course, he'd checked his phone way too many times, but its silence was reassuring. Sam hadn't needed him and that was a good sign.

Getting out of the car, the door squeaked and groaned before slamming shut. Dean slipped the keys and his phone into his jacket pocket before grabbing the bags from the backseat. He took the steps down into the bunker two at a time, a light bounce in his gait.

"It's just me!" he called as he entered the bunker, the plastic bags rustling in his hands. Silence greeted him. Maybe Sam hadn't heard him. It was fine. He jogged down the steps, walking through the library, heading for the kitchen. "Sam?" he called again, louder this time. Still nothing. It didn't mean anything. If something had happened, Sam would've called.

Entering the kitchen, the Winchester dropped the bags on the kitchen counter, noting the mess that still littered the surfaces. Just because Sam hadn't tidied up when he said he would didn't mean something was wrong. It wasn't. He was being paranoid.

"Sammy?" Dean shouted again as he walked out into the corridor, heading for Sam's bedroom. He started to run. He couldn't help it. He looked in the open door and saw it was empty. Shouting again, he raced to the showers. Found them empty.

Something was wrong. He shouldn't have left.

With his heart thumping against his ribs, Dean fumbled for his phone, yanking it from his pocket. He swiped, unlocking, almost giddy with relief when he saw an unread text message.

 _I'm outside. - S_

Dean ran.

He sprinted through the bunker, up the stairs and burst out through the doors that lead out to the front.

"Sam?!" he yelled, jumping up the stairs onto the road.

"I'm here, Dean." He spun, sagging with relief when he looked up and saw Sam sitting on the small rocky hill in a patch of sunlight, his back against the wall of the bunker's upper levels. Dean walked around the entrance to the bunker, climbing up the slope, letting his heartbeat slow. He slid down beside his brother, noting the wet ends of his hair that the sunlight hadn't dried yet.

"You okay?" Dean gazed out over the landscape below. Lebanon sprawled out in front of them, small as it was. It had been a long time since they'd come out here just to sit and watch.

"I just…realised I haven't been outside – properly – in a long time" Sam replied quietly. "The bunker got a bit…claustrophobic."

So something had happened. Dean kicked himself. He shouldn't have gone.

"What can I do?" he asked, trying – and failing – to keep the desperation from his voice.

Sam sat quietly, his gaze pensive. Dean waited, casting a look out of the corner of his eyes at his brother.

"Honestly? I don't know, Dean. _I_ don't even know what to do," Sam replied, his voice quiet and cracking. "I want to be normal – to be _me_ – but I don't even know what that means anymore. I don't want to be the victim. I don't want to be scared of my own shadow. But everything reminds me of _her_. Of what she did to me. I was so weak, Dean. I tried so hard for so long. But I just couldn't do it anymore." His voice broke as the tears begun to fall.

"You are NOT weak, Sammy" Dean growled, clenching his teeth as his throat worked. He had to be the strong one.

"I am, Dean. I can't even tell you if this is real or not."

"The detox is over…"

"No, I don't mean that," Sam explained, shooting Dean a look filled with shame before turning away again. "When…when Lucifer came to that barn, I said that I'd say yes – I'd let him in – if he took it all away. If he made it so that I thought nothing had changed. I want to say that this is all real, but, honestly, I don't know. Maybe I did say yes. Maybe the world is burning because of me."

Dean sat in stunned silence. He knew it'd been bad. Knew that Sam must have agreed to say yes, even if he hadn't gone through with it, for Lucifer to appear. Yet the reality of that hadn't really hit him before. Sam hadn't known he was about to be rescued. He's thought everything was over. Dean had come so close to losing his brother forever. The thought formed a ball of ice in his gut that solidified his fears and spread its cold fingers through his body.

"It's not, Sammy. I can't prove it to you – I don't know how, but it isn't. We're gonna fight this a day at a time. Just like we have before. It ain't gonna be quick and it sure as hell ain't gonna be easy, but we will. I need you to see that. But I need you to be honest with me. You talk when you're ready but when things get bad, I need to know."

Sam gave him a small, sad smile.

"One day at a time."

oOo

 **I think this is turning out to be a lot harder to write than the torture stuff!**

 **Please review!**


	6. Intruders

_"Staring out into the night,_

 _trying to hide the pain."_

 _\- Home, Daughtry_

oOo

Dean was suspicious.

It came from years of honing and refining, registering the tiniest of signals and interpreting them subconsciously until they formed a solid conclusion that was based in no firm evidence. It wasn't even his hunter instincts that caused it (although he was sure that they probably helped). No, this suspicion was formed completely from his role as big brother.

Sam was up to something.

There was one part of the older Winchester than was glad; it had been a dismal few days filled with the both of them wandering around the bunker, not really having a purpose or anything productive to do which was probably the cause of Dean's suspicion. He had watched his brother flinch, jump and hyperventilate at the smallest thing. Sam thought he was concealing it, but he'd forgotten just how attuned to him Dean really was. It pained him so he did what he could to help. He quickly realised that water seemed to be a particular trigger for Sam; every time a tap ran, the shower spurted or something dribbled, Sam's face would drain of colour. Dean didn't ask why but he could guess. Instead, he set to work in the showers, modifying the cubicle next to Sam's usual one, switching the showerhead and its mounting so that it was fully adjustable and flexible, unlike the static one next to it, so that Sam could bend it without getting it on his face. It seemed to bring a small amount of relief; Sam's showers were still ridiculously quick but at least he didn't come out with huge pupils, breathing like he'd run a marathon.

It became Dean's quest; spot the things that affected Sam and fix them.

The only thing he couldn't fix was Sam's mind. After the initial peaceful night following the detox, their nights had been fitful and broken. Sam's shrieks had rung throughout the whole bunker and he would wake in the middle of full blown panic attacks that took Dean hours to pull him down from. Dean would dutifully go to his own room at the start of the night, but each morning he would wake in Sam's room. It was all a charade; he knew he'd end up in there but he played his part for his brother.

All of that was expected though and not the cause of his suspicion. Strolling as nonchalantly as he could past Sam's room, Dean casually glanced in. The bedside lamps emitted a soft orange glow in the room, revealing Sam's slumbering form. He slept more now than he had since he was a kid; the sleep his did manage to get at night wasn't exactly restful and left him drained in the day. Dean sidled in, edging up to the bed. Sam was propped up against his pillows, head lolling to the side, hair flopping in his face. Their father's journal lay open on his chest, cradled under one hand. Dean frowned. Sam's other arm was stretched out, his iPad just out of reach of his fingertips. Leaning over carefully, Dean scooped it up and snuck back out of the room, heading to the library. He swiped at the screen, entering the pin code that Sam didn't know he knew. He looked up briefly and started, nearly dropping the tablet.

"Cas! For god's sake, will you shout when you're here?" he grumbled, shooting a half-hearted glare at the angel who was perched on the edge of the long table.

"I just arrived, Dean; I was about to" Cas replied, cocking his head to the side quizzically.

"Sorry," Dean mumbled, sliding a hand down over his face. "I'm tired. But you do need to be louder…but not loud." Cas' confusion deepened. Dean sighed and sat down. "Just…be careful around Sam. He's not…coping so well."

"How is he?" the angel asked, taking a seat opposite the hunter.

"Crap. He jumps at everythin', he won't talk about it and I think he's up to somethin'" Dean answered, turning his attention back to the iPad that was in his hand. His mouth set into a hard line when he read the screen.

"What do you mean?"

Dean turned the tablet and passed it over the table to the angel. Castiel took it and scanned over the page. A picture of a young teen smiled up at him, her eyes bright and warm. LOCAL GIRL MISSING FROM FAMILY HOME glared up at him above her image.

"He's lookin' for a hunt." Cas looked over the iPad at Dean, his expression impassive but expectant. He waited; it didn't take long. "He's not ready!" Dean burst out, gesturing animatedly with one hand. "He wants to go hunt things when I can't even get him to sleep on his own. It's stupid."

"Maybe it's what he needs" Cas remarked, meeting Dean's scowl evenly.

"No. What he needs is quiet and time to heal. We can't deal with other people's crap yet."

"He's trying to do exactly what you and him always do."

"What do y'mean?" Dean asked, taking the iPad back.

"Rather than talking about your problems, you and Sam would rather go out and hunt monsters than address what's bothering you. You've always done the same thing. You make things needlessly complicated – a trait I have noticed that you humans tend to do" Cas explained, his tone entirely factual. Dean opened his mouth to reply and closed it again. The angel was right. That didn't mean he had to like it.

"Well, this time it's different. I'm not lettin' him go out and get himself killed because he thinks that's the right way to deal with this."

"What are you proposing?"

"Good question," Sam butted in, making the pair of them start as he entered the room. He frowned down at his iPad. "Dude, why have you got my iPad?"

Dean looked down guiltily, putting it on the table. He grinned sheepishly at his brother. "My laptop died and I couldn't find the charger. I…needed it."

"Dean, seriously. Stop using my iPad to enable your sick hentai fetish" Sam grumbled, pulling a face as he sat down. He gave Castiel a tired smile. "Hey, Cas."

"It's good to see you lucid, Sam" Cas replied, returning the smile.

"It feels good to _be_ lucid. So what's the proposal?" Sam asked again, turning his attention back on Dean. Cas mirrored him.

"I got a text from Jody this mornin', asking how you are. She's been worried. I figured it'd be good for you – _us_ – _"_ Dean amended quickly, "to go visit. You know she'll turn up eventually if we don't."

"I don't know, Dean…" Sam hesitated, chewing his lip.

"We can take it easy; quiet roads. Make a trip of it. C'mon, Sammy; we need to get out of here sometime. What if she cooks for us again?" Dean urged, salivating at the memory. He watched his brother carefully, saw the war going on behind his eyes. "You just have to say the word when we're out Sam and we'll come straight back. Me and Cas'll be there the whole time, alright?"

Sam hated it. Hated that he needed that reassurance that Dean gave to him freely, without patronising him. All he saw in his brother's face was concern. He was right; they couldn't hide in the bunker forever. It wasn't who they were and Sam needed to remember who he was before everything that had happened. He took a deep breath.

"Okay. Let's do it."

oOo

 **US-81N, outskirts of Madison, Kansas**

Rain pelted dismally against the Impala, streaking in rivulets up the sides and battering against the windshield. It had been the first real rain they'd seen for ages, soaking the whole world in a sombre grey. They'd set out that morning after another fitful night in the bunker. Sam sat in his place in the front, watching the road roll away in front of him quietly. Cas was relegated to the backseat where he too watched the world go by. Motorhead played softly through the speakers; Sam had thrown Metallica into the backseat without a word. Dean didn't question it. Most of the drive had consisted of him lightening the mood: he talked about anything and everything he could think of, desperate to try and ease Sam's anxiety. It was almost palpable; there were several false starts to their trip where Dean had thought Sam wouldn't even make it into the car back in the bunker. Yet, as when facing so many things, in the end Sam squared his shoulders, set his jaw and did it.

"So, it was really Mom?" Sam asked, breaking the silence. Dean had finally told him of the events following his confrontation with Amara and Chuck. The older Winchester smiled wistfully.

"Yeah, it was her. She was just like I remembered. Better even. I'd give anythin' for you to have had that moment too" he replied. _Instead of spending months living in hell_ , he added silently, bile rising in his throat. He pushed it down; now was not the time. The last thing he wanted was to turn this into an enforced car therapy session.

"Who knows: maybe one day I will" Sam murmured, the corners of his lips curving up minutely at the thought. Someday he would catch a break; it was about time he was due one. He glanced over at his brother. "So tell me something good."

Dean chewed his lip for a moment, thinking. His face broke into a wide grin.

"So turns out that Cas actually thinks the pizza guy has a double life…"

"Dean!" Cas grumbled in the back. Dean looked at him in the rearview mirror.

"The story has to be told, Cas. For posterity," he laughed. "So the last time the pizza guy came…"

Sam shifted back, letting the warm comfort of his brother's amusement wash over him, calming his jangling nerves. He was safe. In that moment, he knew it.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The sleek BMW X5 rumbled to a standstill on the dirt track, the tires wet and crunching over the soaked stones beneath it. Thomas cut the engine and slid from the driver's side, grabbing an umbrella from the backseat before running around to the passenger door. He held the huge umbrella up high, above the car door, shielding Anna as he helped her slide from the SUV.

"Honestly, Thomas, I don't understand why these people insist on such monstrous cars. I asked for a suitably sized car and they gave us an elephant. It's quite ridiculous" she huffed, her thin mouth pressed into a firm line.

"They do bring a whole new meaning to the term 'excessive'," he concurred, keeping the umbrella poised over Anna, letting the pelting rain drive against his black overcoat. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to stay in the car?"

"Nonsense; it's perfectly safe. We watched them leave hours ago" she chided, strolling with a brisk purposefulness towards the cast iron door. A single rain drop evaded the umbrella, landing on her dyed auburn hair. She patted it away with one hand as she reached into her handbag with the other, producing a large ornate key: the twin of the Winchester's. They had been lucky enough to grab Toni's key from the house before they had left England. Passing it to Thomas, she stood to one side as he inserted it in the lock, twisting it. The lock popped with ease. Entering the bunker without it would have been impossible.

The door squealed as Thomas dragged it open, holding it so that Anna could step inside first. The lights flickered to life immediately as they entered and stood on the balcony, looking down over the lower levels. Everything was silent.

"You're sure no one else will be here?" Anna asked softly, keeping her voice low.

"Miss Toni's records never mentioned anyone other than the Winchesters and their pet angel. However, I would suggest we proceed with caution" Thomas answered, lowering the umbrella and leaving it propped up next to the door. He shook the rain drops from his coat before pulling a pistol from his pocket. Leading the way, he descended the stairs, eyes scanning the control room below.

It was time to find out what made the Winchesters tick.

oOo

 **Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

Jody met them at the door, a wide grin spread on her open features. If Jody felt it, she showed it. It was part of what Sam loved so much about her. In a world of secrets, betrayals and half-truths, he always knew where he stood with Sioux Falls' sheriff.

"Sam! Thank god! C'mere" she cried, arms open wide as she reached up to hug him, the same as she always did. He couldn't suppress the flinch, even though he knew to expect her touch. _It's normal. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay_ , played over and over in his mind as he returned the gesture as best as he could. For how long was physical contact going to make his heart thump and his panic rise? He had nothing to fear from Jody and he knew it. But knowing it and telling his subconscious that were two very different things.

She let go, scrutinising his face carefully. It was such a soft, motherly look that it squeezed his heart. Finishing her inspection, Jody said nothing, clearly deciding that her evaluation was best left until later. Dean and Castiel were next in her line of fiercely protective hugs and general exclamations of welcome.

"Claire and Alex have gone to the cabin for the night; they've taken a bit of a shine to it. I figured you could do without snarky teenagers around" she explained as she led them into the house.

"You didn't need to send them away" Sam murmured, guilt lacing his tone as she ushered them into the sitting room.

"Honestly? I'm enjoying the fact that they're gettin' along enough that they wanna go away together. It gives me a moment of peace too" she replied, a warm smile lighting her face. "I'm looking forward to some adult conversation."

"Well we can't promise that" Dean grinned, plonking his bag by the door. He sniffed the air questioningly. He snuck past Jody, heading for the kitchen. She clocked his movements, taking off after him.

"Dean Winchester, if you touch those mashed potatoes, I will cut your damned hand off this time!"

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The bunker was empty. Good.

Thomas didn't know how long they would be gone for, but the tracker he'd managed to secure to the Impala the night before meant that he would have clear warning of the Winchester's return. As it was, the car was over 300 miles away in Sioux Falls. According to Toni's files, that neanderthal never went anywhere without his precious Impala. Thomas had made a mental note of it, filing it away for later. That kind of knowledge was never too invaluable.

Wandering through the bunker's living quarters had been eye opening. Considering the boys had been living there for three or four years, there were few personal possessions. It was as if they were expecting to up and move again at a moment's notice. Well, Sam did, at least. After skulking down the corridors, they had discovered the two occupied bedrooms. Thomas had entered the first, wrinkling his nose in disdain. The bed sat in the centre of the room beneath a shelf that had weapons and crosses strewn haphazardly across its surface in some bizarre attempt at personalisation. A huge pair of headphones sat on the bedside table and a bundle of clothes had been thrown across the desk chair.

Dean's room. Of course it was.

Thomas' lip curled in disgust. He was nothing more than a brutish thug; he couldn't even keep his personal effects in order. Dean Winchester deserved everything that was coming to him. And, after all he'd done, he was going to get his due.

Moving onto the next room, he recognised it as Sam's instantly – he would have identified it even if he hadn't spotted Dean's first. There was a quiet calm, an order to it, despite the mess. Though it was almost devoid of personal possessions, Thomas could see Sam in this space. There was a sombreness to the whole atmosphere. A gentle dignity. During their time together, Thomas had always quietly admired his charge's silent ingenuity. Even though he was never destined to be a true Man of Letters, he would have been phenomenal. Of that, Thomas had no doubt.

"How can anyone stand to live in such conditions?" Anna remarked, glaring at the disarray inside the room.

"You can't blame him, Anna; Sam has had a lot to go through. I'm sure adjusting hasn't been easy for him" he replied, his tone soft, sympathetic.

"If he'd been a man of his word, we wouldn't even be here. I have every right to blame him" she snorted haughtily. She watched as Thomas moved into the room, making a beeline for the desk. He ran his fingers along the top of the polished surface.

"No, Anna; Sam isn't at fault. He's misguided," he explained as he thumbed through the stack of books on the desk. He grasped one of the desk drawers, sliding it open smoothly, smiling at a battered book that sat nestled inside. Pulling it out, slowly, almost reverently, he flicked it open.

Sam's journal.

He knew he'd find one; Sam was not the type of man who wouldn't keep a record. A photograph slipped out of the first page. Turning it over, Thomas stared down at a younger version of the Winchesters: Dean grinning widely as he looked at Sam who had his head thrown back in laughter.

"Misguided? His refusal _caused_ Lady Toni's death!" Anna spat. Thomas looked up, surprised. Anna was not the kind of woman who was prone to sudden outbursts of emotion. He pocketed the photo and crossed the room quickly, placing a comforting hand on her arm as he looked down into her eyes.

"It wasn't Sam. He was ready; I know he was. If his damned brother hadn't shown up, Miss Toni's plan would have worked. We wouldn't have had to have moved and Sam would never have had doubts. _Dean_ caused it all. It's he who has to pay. And believe me, he will."

oOo

 **Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

Quiet had descended on Jody's house, the bustle of dinner finally over and all of the occupants were suitably satiated (with all limbs still intact in Dean's case). The soft clattering of dishes and cutlery being washed drifted through from the kitchen where Dean and Castiel were cleaning up, leaving Jody and Sam in the living room. The incessant rain continued to batter against the windows but inside it was warm, comforting. Sam swirled his glass of red wine slowly while Jody peered over the top of hers at him. The wine he'd consumed had relaxed him, draining away the tension in his muscles for the first time in days. He'd only had two glasses which would never have bothered him before, but he hadn't had anything alcoholic in…he couldn't remember when. It made him dozy, a warm blanket wrapping around him in the relative safety of Jody's home.

"So how you really holdin' up, Sam?" Jody coaxed, her voice warm and inviting. She was everything Toni hadn't been, Sam mused silently.

"I keep…I keep waiting to feel like me again. I don't. I feel like a stranger in my own head. It's odd. I've been through shit like this before, but somehow…"

"It was different this time?"

"Yeah. I dunno. Maybe it was because they were human. The supernatural, I get – I can deal with; I've done it long enough. But I just…couldn't. Not with them. I was ready to give it all up, Jody. Honest to god, I was. The things they did…the way they made me feel…" Sam swallowed. He couldn't. This was his burden.

"Have you talked to Dean about any of this?" she asked quietly, her heart aching when she saw the battle he was waging within himself. She'd seen her boys in a lot of ways: bloodied, broken, happy, guilty, grieving…but she couldn't bear to see the look in Sam's eyes now. If Toni hadn't been dead already, Jody would have wrung her neck herself.

"No. I can't, not yet. He blames himself – for all of this. It's stupid. He went off to save everything! How was he to know that some crazy English bitch was gonna be at the bunker?" he mumbled, downing a large mouthful of wine.

"There was no way you could've known either," she replied. Sam looked away. "You were grieving for a brother you thought you'd lost and you'd got to the one place you thought was safe – and you had Cas with you. It's okay to let your guard down. But if I know one thing about you, Sam," she caught his eye again, her expression serious but encouraging, "it's that you don't give up. You may have felt like you were at the end but I'd stake my life on the fact that you would have fought tooth and nail up to that point. I can't even begin to imagine what they did to you, but I also know that you probably went through more than most people could even begin to comprehend, let alone survive." She put her wine glass down and got up, settling herself on the arm of his chair. Pulling him gently to her, she ignored his involuntary flinch, cradling his head against her torso as she stroked his hair softly. Bending down, she kissed the top of his head.

"I'm proud of you, Sam Winchester. Don't you forget that" she whispered fiercely against the top of his head as he relaxed into her embrace, his tears dampening her shirt.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Oh, he had hit the jackpot with Sam's journal. He knew Sam would be detailed and thorough, but he had no idea how much so. Obviously, there was a large gap missing from when he'd been a resident with Miss Toni, but it would seem he'd started writing again two days ago. And what a tale it told.

Poor boy. He'd suffered so much since being taken. The demon detox, the nightmares…not knowing what was real. It was all here. His idiotic brother had been attempting to help but was essentially useless. Thomas wasn't surprised. Dean didn't know how to look after his brother – that much was clear.

"You look like the cat that managed to get into the whole vat of cream without getting caught" Anna remarked as she reappeared, a bundle of sheets in her arms. Disgusted by the state of Sam's room, she had set to work straightening it, muttering about 'clean space, clean mindset'. At first, Thomas had thought to stop her, but the more he read, the more he approved. Sam needed a clear mind before they relocated him. He smiled up at her.

"We're going to have a slight change of plans. Nothing too drastic, but it will serve our purpose better than we ever expected" he explained as he pulled a pen from the desk tidy. Taking a page from the back of the journal, he held the book open, copying a few notes – key sections – whilst trying to match his handwriting to Sam's as best he could. Satisfied, he folded the page, slipping it into his jacket pocket. Concentrating, he began to write in the journal, keeping his script soft and clear. Anna peered over his shoulder as she tucked a pillow into a new case.

"Oh Thomas, you are devious" she smiled approvingly. Satisfied, she plumped the pillow with extra vigour. He finished what he'd added, putting the pen back in the pot, his knuckles brushing against another journal. He put Sam's back in the drawer before picking up the other one, inspecting it closely. The cover was a soft tan leather, darkening with age and use, held closed by a buckle on the side. Popping it open, he scanned over the handwritten pages, drawing his fingertips lightly over an ornate brass medal and the inscription 'HW' on the inside cover.

"I'll be damned" he murmured. He flicked through a few pages, eyes bright. Closing it, he slid the clasp back in. He'd known coming into the bunker was going to be fruitful but he hadn't realised how much so. He rose from the chair, tucking John Winchester's journal under his arm. He looked around thoughtfully. The bundle of clothes had been cleared away and the bedsheets were clean and crisp on the bed. It looked so much better already. He would never have let Sam's environment fall into such disarray when he was caring for him. Yet again, it showed how inept Dean truly was, adding yet more fuel to the loathing that burned inside him.

Thomas wandered over to the wardrobe, opening it and trailing his fingers along the shirts that hung there. He frowned at the frayed edges of some of the garments. Hunting wasn't a lucrative business, but still, there was no reason why Sam needed to go without all the time. At least he'd been properly looked after in Thomas' care. Clothed, housed and fed. It was yet another of Dean's failures.

"What are you looking for, Thomas?" Anna asked when she saw him gazing around.

"I want something that we can use which will provide Sam with some comfort. He's bound to be distressed in the first few days – it's only natural – but it can't be anything he'll miss or could use once he's with us."

Anna finished straightening the bed cover, her eyes thoughtful. She held up a finger.

"I think I've got just the thing!" she chirped briskly, disappearing from the room. Curious, Thomas followed her out, giving Sam's room one last once over, clasping John's journal to his chest. At least it would be more comfortable now that it was ordered; just the way he knew Sam would have it.

He found her in Dean's room, rummaging through the bottles on a shelf. She held aloft a small bottle, giving it a quick sniff. Holding it out to Thomas, he breathed deeply. His nose wrinkled in revulsion.

"I doubt he'll even notice it's missing. Disgusting beast that he is, he probably only wears it when he's off to plough the local harlots. I'd imagine it's a smell Sam would associate with his brother though" she explained as she slipped it into her handbag.

"Anna, have I ever told you you're a genius?" Thomas smiled. She swatted playfully at his arm, motioning towards the door.

"Enough of that. Flattery never worked with me Mr Maguire and you know that full well," she chided, but there was a hint of a smile. "Come on, I think we've spent enough time in this squalor; let's go and see about those changes you want made."

oOo

 _The rain was all he had heard for what felt like hours. It smashed against the sides of the car, a distinct sloshing sound reverberating around him from the tyres gliding across a waterlogged road. He couldn't remember getting here. He'd woken up in the back of the car; his last waking memory was of James and Toni digging the bullet from his leg without anaesthetic. It still ached now, sending fire through his nerves whenever he wiggled around. The sloshing sound slowed and the dark world around him slowed to a stop._

 _Car doors thudded._

 _Sam heard voices but couldn't make out what they were saying. He shifted uncomfortably, sick of the ache in his shoulders. Boots crunched over gravel and he quickly closed his eyes, letting his whole body go limb. He breathed deeply through his nose._

 _In. Out. In. Out._

 _The rain got louder as the tailgate was raised on the car, a cold wind swirling in and around him. He kept still, relaxed. Fought the urge to jump when two fingers pressed against his throat._

 _"Too fast to be asleep. You're not fooling anyone" James remarked, twining his hand in Sam's hair and wrenching his head up. Sam growled at the unwanted contact, eyes flying open and glaring maliciously up at James. The thug sneered down at him, letting go and twisting him around. He grabbed Sam's bound ankles, dragging him towards the tailgate. Sam struggled, trying to kick out with his legs but James' grip didn't slacken. "Pack it in!" he snarled, flicking open a blade. He sawed through the ropes around Sam's ankles and knees, moving to the side and out of Sam's kicking range. He hauled the Winchester upright by the arm, his grip so tight that Sam knew it would leave bruises._

 _Sam glared at Toni who was stood a few metres away, talking quietly to a man Sam didn't recognise. He wore a grey suit, his dark hair glistening with a few raindrops as he held an umbrella over Toni's head. His mouth was set in a serious line beneath the neatly trimmed beard that peppered his cheeks. Her eyes met Sam's head on, her mouth curved into a cold half smile._

 _James yanked him to his feet, holding him steady when he swayed. Sam leaned into him heavily, feigning his unsteadiness, forcing him to readjust his grip. He slammed his head down, catching James on the temple with a rancorous headbutt and a swift kick with one foot, knocking the Man of Letters to the ground._

 _Without missing a beat, Sam ran, his feet pounding against the wet driveway, splashing through puddles as the rain pelted against his face, stinging his eyes. His thigh burned but adrenaline pushed him on; he had one chance and he knew it._

 _He had to get to the road._

 _Someone bulldozed straight into him from behind, sending them both crashing to the ground. He writhed frantically against the weight on his back, his bellows of frustration muffled by the gag that was still in his mouth. He twisted his head, seeing the man he didn't recognise straddling him, one hand gripping Sam's bound hands, the other on his shoulder, pinning him down. Sam panted heavily, exhausted, but still he bucked and fought, harder still when he saw James approaching, his rage clear and frightening._

 _He stopped just behind the other man, crouching down and disappearing from view. White hot agony sparked through Sam as he felt James jab into his bullet wound with his thumb, ripping open the sutures, drawing a muted howl of agony from the Winchester who writhed on the soaking floor, trying to pull his leg away from the excruciating intrusion._

 _"Get him up" James snarled. The other man got off his back, the pair of them yanking him upright. Satisfaction filled Sam when he saw the dribble of blood mixing with the rain on James' face. Good. They marched him back towards the house, holding an arm each, ignoring his now pronounced limp. They stopped in front of Toni who grabbed his jaw roughly. He tried jerking his head away but her grip was tight, fingers digging into the cloth that covered the lower half of his face._

 _"That was your last escape attempt, Sam. I hope it was worth it" she hissed, backhanding him viciously when she let go, snapping his head to the side. She turned and led the way up the porch steps, an auburn-haired woman holding the door open for her as she entered. Sam wrestled with his two captors, fighting them every step of the way, dragging his feet and trying to yank free of their grips constantly. Yet nothing worked. They held on with vicelike grips, hauling him into the house. His panic rose as the door shut, muffling the sound of the rain. His cries and shouts were incoherent and ignored, their wet shoes squeaking across the wooden flooring. Toni stopped at a door, opening it and descending into the darkness below. Sam's heart hammered; if he went down there, he'd never come back out. He kicked up with both legs, planting them on either side of the doorframe and propelled the three of them backwards. James and the other man stumbled but didn't fall._

 _"Grab his legs" the other man instructed, adjusting his hold so that he was holding both of Sam's arms. James moved down his body, his arm snaking around both of Sam's legs, lifting and clamping them to his side. Sam groaned, writhing desperately between the two men as they carried him down the stairs. His eyes adjusted to the gloom below, a whimper escaping his throat when he saw Toni stood next to another open door, this time leading into a bright white room. The two men carried him across, stopping just inside the doorway so that James could drop Sam's legs. The other man pushed him forwards, sending him stumbling inside as James slipped out, slamming the door shut behind him. Sam ran at the door, flinging himself into it with a loud bang._

 _It didn't budge._

 _Panic filled him, sending his pulse skyrocketing as the full weight of his predicament began to sink in. He was thousands of miles from home, alone, bound, gagged and locked in some crazy woman's basement without anyone having any idea where he was. His foot slammed against the door again, the bang reverberating around the room._

 _He kicked again._

 _And again._

 _And again._

oOo

 **Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

The next peal of thunder crashed through the room, jolting Sam into the waking world and out of the nightmare. Not a nightmare: a memory. Lightning flashed, sending him scrambling up the bed, kicking out when the sheets tangled around his legs, restricting him, stopping him. He had to get out. Couldn't stay.

"Sammy?"

He heard his name, saw Dean in the chair, his eyes bleary, confused, but none of it registered. The thunder smashed through the room. He clambered out of the bedroom, almost falling when the sheet snagged his foot. Rain pelted against the windows, lightning flaring through the room again. How did he get out? Where the hell was he?

Not home.

Sam raced through the open door, feet thumping down the hall, ignoring the shouts behind him, other voices adding to it. Oh god, where was he meant to go? He couldn't stay – he couldn't breathe. Not here. Too closed. Too small.

He had to get out. He needed Dean. Dean was dead.

He ran.

The front door loomed and he yanked it open, eyes wide and fearful when the thunder rolled overhead. His legs propelled him out into the storm, into the rain. His bare feet slapped against the puddles.

"Sam, stop!" a voice shouted. He wanted to – he did. He couldn't. A hand grabbed his arm. Without thinking, he swung, his fist connecting with his assailant's face. The grip on his arm didn't let go though. It pushed him back until he collided with something cold, metallic. His panicked glance slid to the side, registering the Impala. "Sam! Look at me, c'mon, man; you're scaring the shit outta me here!" Two hands held either side of his face. He grappled with them to start with but his eyes centred on the face in front of him. Saw the rain flattening and darkening Dean's hair, droplets running down his face, mixing with the blood that ran from his nose. Sam's hands grasped his brother's, clinging on. "That's good, c'mon, breathe with me, Sammy. You can do it. That's it" Dean reassured him, keeping his eyes locked on him, his voice calming. Sam felt his lungs inflate, drawing in a deep breath. Dean wasn't dead; he was here. Misery filled the Winchester; how much longer would he be confusing the real world with memory? With his imagination?

"I can't do this, Dean" Sam whispered, despair in his eyes. Dean smiled at him, but his eyes remained hard, fiercely protective.

"Yeah, you can. We can. It's alright. Nothin' bad will happen to you. Not while I'm around."

oOo

 **So I wrote all the Jody stuff before seeing Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox; loved so many scenes in it! Any similarity was purely coincidence (including the hentai aka Japanese animated erotica comment!).**

 **Please review!**


	7. Release the Trigger

**Thank you to everyone who is reading/reviewing/following/favouriting this – I think it's starting to get bigger than Broken!**

 **I've taken a canon case but have had to modify it to fit (for obvious reasons!).**

 **Enjoy!**

oOo

 _"I'm a terrifying danger."_

 _\- Nobody Praying for Me, Seether_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

The farmhouse stood alone in a sea of green, a single beige dirt track leading up the side of the property. Grass grew down its centre, the rest worn down after years of abuse from heavy machinery rolling over it. A makeshift fence made from warped tree boughs encased the house and a small trimmed garden area. The house itself was a weathered grey, the original browns drained from it from years of heavy rain and bleaching from the sun. Some newer planks ran along the top, passed the two upper story windows, replaced after one of Kansas' frequent tornadoes. A stone chimney breast protruded at its centre between the staggered roofs.

Anna stood on the veranda by the front door, a porch swing to her left as she held two cups of tea, sipping hers daintily as she observed the quiet world beyond. Their American contacts had done them well; it was suitably isolated for them to be left undisturbed, surrounded by miles of flat farmland as far as the eye could see. It was perhaps a bit more…rustic than she would like, but, as farmhouses went, it had a certain character to it. It would be comfortable enough for her and Thomas, at least.

She walked down the steps and crossed the lawn, skirting around the side of a small whitewashed shed that sat just to the side of the house and made her way toward a raised mound on the edge of the lawn, tucked into a corner. Grass surrounded an angled entrance, a steel door flipped open and lying against the grass. The opening was around the size of a normal doorframe, steps leading down into the ground. Anna stepped carefully in and down, her small heels making sharp clipping sounds against the concrete stairs.

Inside, the cellar was compact: roughly twelve feet by eight. The walls were unpainted, the dull grey of the concrete creating a heavy dimness to the interior. It was mostly bare; the wooden shelves that sat on the left-hand side were currently empty and a single metal cot sat against the opposite wall. Thomas was standing on a small stepladder, screwdriver in hand as he fixed a small CCTV unit into the corner. His suit jacket was off, his shirt sleeves uncuffed and rolled up to his elbows. The jacket was folded neatly and placed across the top of the ladder.

"Thank you, Anna" he smiled down at her as she entered, offering him up his tea. He put the tools down and stepped off the ladder, sipping at the welcome drink.

"It's not up to my usual standard, I'm afraid," she sighed, glaring down at her own mug. "God forbid they should have proper tea here. I haven't used teabags since 1983. I must see if I can find a proper shop that will do loose leaf. I refuse to have my standards lowered because they don't know what decent tea tastes like."

"I'll see what I can find when I head out later" Thomas assured her, smiling gently into his mug. Anna was a woman of principles; it was something he respected in her as he had with Miss Toni.

"How are you getting on?"

"I think we're nearly ready for Sam's arrival. I'll have the camera operational by this afternoon. Then I just need to do one last shopping run and we'll be ready. Mr Winslow was absolutely right when he said this place was perfect. It seems there are storm cellars like this all over the place and they're meant to be fairly indestructible. It's exactly what we need for Sam's rehabilitation. Home from home for him rather than that hovel of a bunker."

Anna smiled; she was glad to see Thomas happy, filled with purpose. If caring for the Winchester did that, as well as letting him get their vengeance, then she was satisfied. The more Thomas spoke of Sam, the more intrigued she became. She had had no contact with the American except for when he had entered their home and during his ill-advised escape attempt. He'd been a recalcitrant brute when she'd first laid eyes on him, fighting Thomas and James as they escorted him in. Anna had presumed him to be no better than a thug; a means to an end for Toni's purposes. Yet, Thomas' occasional comments over the last few months and weeks had piqued her interest. Maybe he wasn't beyond redemption; Thomas certainly thought as much. The same couldn't be said for his brother – the one she had never met. He would die; of that, she was sure. Thomas' fondness for the younger one pushed him to want to save Sam. She would help – where she could. However, re-educating wayward youths was not her forte. If Sam was anything other than cooperative, he would see just how strict the proper English could be.

"It won't be long now" she grimaced, finishing her revolting tea.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The trip to Jody's had done Sam the world of good. They'd stayed with Sioux Falls' sheriff for a few days, despite Sam's guilt over disturbing everyone else through the night. Jody refused to pander to his emotions, insisting that she'd had worse with teenage angst. The storm had dissipated eventually, leaving the world bright and clear for the remainder of their trip. Dean, Cas and Jody had spent the rest of the time helping Sam readjust, slowly but surely.

While the nights hadn't improved, Sam's days weren't quite so dark. They coaxed and encouraged him, guiding him through the things he found difficult, comforting and reassuring him whenever he started to panic. Their patience was endless. By the third day, they got him to go out, taking a short trip into the centre of Sioux Falls. They flanked him, keeping him safe, getting him to talk through the things that made his heart race. Rationalising everything became second nature. Yes, plenty of Americans drove black SUVs but, no, they had no interest in him. Yes, that stranger was looking at him, but that was Ellis Baldwin: he stared at everyone who wasn't a local.

Such an insignificant outing would never have bothered him before, but the crowds of strangers, the noises and the general chaos was overwhelming. Yet still his family encouraged him, helping him push through the barriers in his mind. Jody did nothing but smile reassuringly even when Sam squeezed her hand so hard it hurt in the middle of the supermarket.

His panic attacks lessened, small moments of confidence reappeared. Dean felt nothing but pride in his little brother; he never stopped fighting. Why should he? He was a Winchester and that's what they did. They would celebrate the small victories because they were all they had at the moment.

That was good enough for Dean.

The three of them walked back into the bunker, bags in hand, chatting about nothing in particular. Dean slid the leftovers boxes onto the control room's table; Jody had sent them with enough food to last them a good few days, provided Dean didn't tuck in on the sly. Sam headed down the hall, rucksack slung over one shoulder. Rounding the corner, he reached in and turned on the lights in his bedroom.

He stopped dead in the doorway, feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

It was completely immaculate. The clothes that had been draped over the desk chair were gone, the sheets on his bed were different – clean and crisp as though he hadn't slept on them. His iPad sat on his bed, the books on his desk were neatly aligned.

"Huh. Finally got round to cleanin' your room before we left" Dean remarked, making Sam jump when he peered in on his way past. He moved on before Sam could answer. Had he? The hunter had no recollection of tidying up at all before they left, yet he couldn't think of any other plausible reason. Dean wouldn't have commented on it if he'd done it and no one else could get into the bunker.

 _She did_.

The voice was quiet and unsettling in his mind until he pushed the thought away. She was dead and she wasn't coming back. Sam sighed heavily; as if being afraid of damned near everything wasn't enough, now he was blacking things out? The same vicious little voice nagged at him, prodding him with the idea of Lucifer yet again. He couldn't tell Dean. His brother was burdened enough without Sam beginning to seriously consider the notion that this wasn't real. No, Sam needed to deal with this on his own.

Slinging his bag down on the bed, he wrenched it open, tugging his clothes and his battered copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde out. He left the clothes on the foot of his bed, moving to place the book back on his desk. His hand stopped when he looked at the neat line of books. His mouth went dry.

Where the hell was his dad's journal?!

He'd left it on the end – he knew he had. Dropping Jekyll and Hyde, he pulled out the other books, double checking their titles, knowing full well that the journal hadn't mystically turned into any of them.

"No, no, no!" he repeated desperately, jerking the desk drawers open and scrabbling through them. The journal wasn't there. Crossing the room, he checked both bedside tables and their drawers. He looked under the bed, in the bed, on the shelf, in the wardrobe, hell, he even looked in the damned laundry hamper.

John's journal wasn't there.

How could he have lost it! It was the one link they truly had to their father and he'd lost it! Unless he'd put it back out in the library. He needed to check, but Dean would ask what he was doing and how was he supposed to tell his big brother that he'd misplaced it?

It was the last thing he needed.

"Sammy! Food!" Dean's bark wafted through. Shit. Sam took one last look around his room. He would find the journal later; he had to.

oOo

The next morning saw the Winchester brothers sitting quietly in the kitchen, Dean reading a local paper, Sam brooding over his cornflakes, stabbing at them half-heartedly with his spoon. He had searched everywhere but couldn't find the journal. Guilt riddled him but he couldn't bring himself to tell Dean. The damned thing had to be somewhere; it couldn't just walk off.

Dean looked up when Castiel appeared in the doorway.

"Mornin' sunshine. Want some coffee?"

"No, thank you. I have to go" Cas replied, walking off. Dean looked at Sam, confusion written on his features. They both got up, hurrying for the doorway.

"Cas? Wait up!"

"Wait a second; where are you off to?" Sam asked, frowning.

"Cleveland, Ohio" the angel stated. Dean rolled his eyes. Sometimes, it was like pulling teeth.

"For what?"

"I think I may have a lead on Lucifer" he explained. Sam's heart thumped. "I found a police report in Cleveland about a man whose eyes 'flared a glowing red'. It could be Lucifer in a new body. I need to go and follow it up." Sam watched the war rage in Dean's face; the urge to go with Cas, to back him up versus the need to stay. He knew exactly which one Dean would pick and he was grateful; Sam was in no fit state to be confronting the Devil again and he knew it.

"Okay. If you need anythin', you call, got it?" Dean replied. Cas nodded. "Be safe."

The angel left without another word, leaving the boys in the hall, watching him go. Sam felt his heart start to slow as he concentrated on his breathing. He turned, heading off towards his room.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean called. Sam turned and met his anxious look with a small smile.

"Yeah." Dean's look turned sceptical. "Honestly, Dean, I'm okay. I just need to process it."

Dean watched his brother go, half tempted to follow him anyway before deciding against it. Sam was calm and sometimes he did just need space. It was a better reaction to Lucifer's name than he would have given even two days ago. He wandered back into the kitchen to clean up the remnants of breakfast.

Sam padded softly down the corridor, wandering listlessly into his room. He stood in the centre, chewing on his lower lip. Moving to the desk, he sat down, avoiding looking at the space where his dad's journal should be, opening the drawer instead and taking out his own journal.

Recording what was happening was therapeutic for him; if he really was losing it, writing it down would help keep it clear in his head.

Grabbing a pen from the desk tidy, he flipped the book open to the next clean page which sat opposite his last entry. He was about to write the date when he noticed the date of the last entry. It was from the day they'd left to go to Jody's; the day when he'd apparently tidied his room. He couldn't remember writing in it. Curious, he scanned his own writing, his frown lifting to a look of bewilderment.

 _I can't trust him. There's something strange in the looks he gives me when he thinks I'm not looking. Something deep, dark. Unsettling. I can't put my finger on it, but whenever I catch that look, it sends a chill through me. He did everything he could to help with the detox – I know that – but something just feels so wrong. Even Cas has been abnormally quiet around him. I know how I_ should _feel around Dean, he's my brother, my best friend, but I don't feel that way – not at the moment. The more I'm around him, the worse I feel. I need to get out. If I don't…I don't know. There's only one other person who's ever made me feel this way: Lucifer._

Sam slammed the journal closed, holding a hand to his mouth as he ran for the bathroom, emptying his breakfast into the nearest toilet.

oOo

"I found a case."

Dean's eyes narrowed and he sighed. He looked up at Sam who stood in the doorway of the library, his iPad clutched in both hands.

"Sam, we've talked about this…" Dean grumbled. The very fact that he'd found his brother vomiting in the bathroom a few hours earlier did nothing to persuade him that a hunt was a good idea. Sam hadn't said what made him ill, but had gone back to bed when Dean ordered him to.

"Dean," Sam's tone was forceful, more so than it had been in a long time. "We need to go out and _do_ something."

"So we'll go visit people, do normal things" Dean countered. Sam shook his head, approaching the table.

"No, Dean. I want to hunt. I want to get my life back and hunting is a part of that. Not being stuck here waiting around for nothing. I won't do it."

The pair glared at each other, a stony silence electrifying the air. Finally, Dean huffed, motioning with his hand for Sam's iPad.

"Fine. But it depends what this is" he growled, snatching the tablet, curiosity stabbing at him when Sam leaned over to give him the computer but backed away almost like a child giving up something to a parent. It was an odd gesture. Dean scanned the screen and the article.

PRIEST CLAIMS DEMONS WALK AMONGST US.

"It's out in Mason City, Iowa. A priest says he saw a girl get flayed alive by an 'invisible force' in his church. My thoughts? Demon. It's an easy win, Dean. Something to get back in the game with" Sam insisted, his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets.

He was right; it was an easy win. Dean couldn't deny that. Find the demon, exorcise it – if possible – or kill it if necessary. Maybe it would help give Sam back another shred of confidence. Running a hand over his face, Dean nodded, shutting his laptop and putting the iPad down next to it.

"Alright. But if anythin' and I mean _anythin'_ feels off about this, we're outta there. This is only gonna work if you're 100% honest with me, ok?" Dean conceded, watching his brother carefully.

"Yeah, of course," Sam nodded. He gave a small smile. "I think we're gonna need the priest suits."

Dean groaned. "I hate the priest get up. I feel like a damned Chippendale."

"I think that'll give the congregation something new to repent for" Sam chuckled as he disappeared back down the corridor.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

John Winchester's journal was…fascinating. Thomas had never realised what an unusual and varied life Sam had had. Hunters were utterly barbaric – there was no denying that, in fact, John's journal confirmed it – yet Thomas couldn't help but admire their determination and grit. Men of Letters were obviously superior, but the practical field knowledge the Winchesters had collected over the last three decades was truly impressive. John Winchester seemed like a practical man; there was little emotion, little personality in his journal. Facts, figures, dates. The things he deemed important. Thomas could respect that.

It was a quality he'd seen in Sam. Not in anything he'd said or done; they had had few real conversations during his residence in London, but Thomas had an eye for such people, an instinct. As a Man of Letters himself, he had been around genius for his whole life and it was something he could spot a mile away. When this was all over, he would enjoy those moments with Sam where they could properly hone his talents. The anticipation for such a time sent a thrill through Thomas.

Yet…Sam was more emotional than his father. There was a passion in him, an almost obsessive drive. There had to be, else he would never have waited so long to break even though he'd thought he'd lost all he held dear. There was an empathy there for Thomas, now that Miss Toni was gone, which he would build on, cement the foundations of their future. After all, Sam would lose his brother – properly this time.

Thomas would need to be there for him. He had no doubts that Sam's transition was going to be difficult.

The Man of Letters would have to be careful though, particularly in those first few days. Sam had lost his trust, not once but twice, and Thomas, while he may forgive, he certainly didn't forget. Discipline would be the order of the day until Sam could prove that he was responsible. Even then, Thomas would still have his doubts.

He was a cautious man, after all.

The phone next to his hand chirped, vibrating on the table. Putting down the pen he was using to make notes with into the spine of his open notebook, Thomas picked up the phone and swiped. A new notification from the tracker on the Impala popped up. It had already gone off earlier, informing him that the vehicle had left the safety of the bunker. Now it confirmed that the car had been stationary for a couple of hours. Thomas zoomed in on the map. Mason City, Iowa. Bringing up Google Maps, he calculated the time from Geneva to Mason City: six hours.

Perfect.

He wasn't aware of a connection the Winchesters had to Iowa, but that was a very long drive for nothing. Given what he'd read of Sam's mindset in his own journal, the likelihood was that they would stay somewhere out there. Dean was quite oppressive; he would restrict his brother's exposure to long bouts of travel, of that, Thomas was sure. A small grin lit up his features as he locked the phone.

It was time.

oOo

 **Mason City, Iowa**

The boys stepped out into the glaring Iowa sunlight, the heat stifling as they left the air-conditioned lobby of Child Protective Services. Walking side by side, Sam clutched the box of case files to his chest, concentrating on slowing his breathing. He knew returning to hunting would be difficult, but so far it was also exhausting. He was beyond tired, but refused to let it show.

"Well that was easy" Dean remarked, heading for the concrete stairs which lead up to the building. Sam frowned, catching him up.

"What?"

"What? The wicked witch of the west in there," Dean replied gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. He smoothed down his tie when the wind ruffled it up. "Little Miss Positive Energy. Wanted the bigger office – did a little hoodoo. Boom. I say we put a witch-killing cap in her ass and call it a day."

"Yeah, but we checked the church and Olivia's house; we didn't find any hex bags" Sam countered. Dean shrugged as they approached the Impala, pulling his keys from his pocket. Sam ignored the spike in his pulse at the jangling sound. They stopped at the back of the car as Dean pulled the trunk open.

"So she covered her tracks," Dean shrugged.

"Or we're not looking at a witch."

Dean huffed, shooting his brother a look. They'd already ascertained from the body – which Dean hadn't let Sam go and see – that it wasn't a demon like the headline had suggested. He didn't like the complication in this already; it was supposed to be an easy case. A witch was viable and the hunter was sticking to his theory.

"Look, I'm not saying it's _not_ Beth," Sam continued, ignoring the screech of the trunk as it opened. Dean reached in, pulling out a small brown box neatly filled with a variety of different coloured bullets. "I'm just saying we need proof. Look, if it's her, I'll shoot her myself."

Dean gave him a hard look.

"No, Sam – we agreed on this. You get to do the leg work but the moment it gets dangerous – like going up against a witch – you're stayin' out of it. I know you want to be ready and I get it – I really do – but you're not. Baby steps, man. It'll come" he replied, levelling his baby brother with a no-nonsense look as he slammed the trunk shut. Sam clenched his jaw, the muscles working in the sides of his cheeks. He opened the rear passenger door of the Impala and slid the box onto the seat.

They drove off without another word, the silence uncomfortable for Sam. His gaze slid over to Dean, doubt gnawing at his gut. Why did he think he couldn't trust his brother? Ever since he read that diary entry that morning, he couldn't shake what it had said. He watched for the look he'd written about but couldn't see it. Bringing it up wasn't an optional either – after everything Dean had been doing for him, it wasn't fair to start accusing him. But what Sam was supposed to be accusing him of, he didn't know. He'd tried – and failed – to bring up their dad's journal several times, yet he couldn't bring himself to say the words. _I lost Dad's journal._ Dean would flip, Sam knew he would and he couldn't deal with that right now. Deep down, he knew Dean was the only thing holding him together.

Yet Dean did seem off. Normally he wanted evidence, the same as Sam did, but this time he had fixated on the idea of a witch. It wasn't like him. Dean ran on instinct, but usually their instincts were the same. Sam's didn't ring any kind of witch-bell. Maybe he was just off his game.

Either way, the doubt still goaded him.

oOo

 **Mason City, Iowa**

Thomas sat waiting patiently, watching through the window. He was obscured from view by the net curtains but he could see everything that happened beyond. The carpark of the Commandeer Inn was filling slowly as the darkness descended. His BMW was parked off to one side, away from the black Impala that was parked almost directly outside his door. He concentrated on the voices bubbling through his ear piece, the speaker in the Winchester's room picking up their low voices clearly. He was glad Sam was working, getting back on his feet. He had purpose too. It also meant he was distracted – which was even better.

Headlights flared as a car pulled into the lot, pulling up across the back of two parked cars. Thomas rose, removing the earpiece as he left his room. The warm air of the outside swirled around him as he stepped out, putting his hands in his jeans pockets – he detested how they felt – and walked casually towards the Winchesters' room as the delivery boy stepped out of his car.

"Oh! Excuse me!" Thomas waved at him, walking over, "is that for room 11?"

"Err, yeah" the delivery boy replied, surprise flitting across his features.

"That's me. I'm just on my way back now. Thanks" Thomas smiled at him, offering him a smoothed out note which the boy eagerly exchanged for the pizza box.

"No problem. Have a good night!"

"Oh, I will. Trust me" Thomas replied, walking away.

oOo

"If they don't hurry up, I'm gonna die" Dean groaned, listening to the angry rumble of his stomach. He was sprawled across the bed nearest the door, the protective barrier between his brother and the world, surrounded by what felt like endless sheets of paper. He rubbed his abdomen pitifully, sending longing looks towards the door, willing it to knock. Sam rolled his eyes as he wandered into the tiny white bathroom.

A soft tapping rapped against the door. Dean leaped up in a flurry of paper, wrenching the door open. The delivery guy had a red baseball hat pulled down over his eyes, his broad shoulders encased in a plain white shirt beneath a casual black jacket. Dean near enough snatched the huge pizza box from his overstretched hands.

"Thanks!" he grinned.

"Enjoy" the man replied, his soft accent indistinct as Dean turned and kicked the door shut behind him. Sam reappeared, grabbing two beers from the small fridge in the kitchenette. He popped the caps with ease, throwing them in the bin. Dean placed the pizza box on the table by the window, his eyes alight with excitement. Reverently, he lifted the lid and grinned at the gigantic pizza that lay before him. Sam slid into the seat opposite him, shaking his head with a grin as Dean picked up the first slice, wolfing it down like he hadn't eaten in days. Grabbing a slice himself, he tucked in.

"Well so far, I haven't found anyone that really sticks out as an obvious 'go and die' type" Dean mumbled around a mouthful. He took a swig of the beer, chasing down the pizza. Sam chewed slower than his brother, taking his time.

"Me either. Yeah, she had a lot of enemies but I can't find any links to the occult or the supernatural. We may have to go to each family."

Dean groaned, pulling a face. "Great. That's, what, 30 cases? That's gonna take forever."

"We'll start early. It's fine" Sam replied, watching the darkness outside the window. He was glad the motel was quiet. It was unusual for them to find a motel that was rowdy, but it did happen on occasion. Growing silent, the pair finished their meal in relative peace.

oOo

Thomas sat and listened. Their case did sound interesting. It was a shame that Sam wouldn't be there to solve it. That would be the kind of detail that would play on Sam's mind, but he would survive. A bit of guilt never hurt anyone.

He checked his watch, calculating how long he should wait. He'd already moved the BMW next to the Impala. The narcotic he'd laced their food with and dissolved in their twist-cap beers when he'd broken into their room earlier was slow acting and not particularly strong. It would be enough to subdue them, but he needed to time it right.

He waited.

oOo

Sam lay on his bed, struggling to keep his eyes open and focused on the case file he was currently reading. The words kept blurring together, moving around the page. With a huff, he threw it down on the bed, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Dean looked over at his brother, stifling a yawn. He was on his second beer, his tie off, the top of his suit shirt unbuttoned. Sam's eyes slid closed as his head nodded forward. It had been one hell of a day for the both of them, stretching muscles that neither had really used in months. He jumped when the motel phone between their beds rang. Frowning, he leaned over, picking up the receiver. Sam blinked blearily at him, woken from his doze by the loud ring.

"Yeah?" Dean asked, clearing his throat when his voice came out thick.

"Hi, err…Agent? This is the front desk. I'm sorry to bother you but we need your assistance at the front desk. Is there any chance you could come down?" A timid male voice squeaked down the phone. Dean sighed.

"Dude, I'm off duty."

"I-I know and I'm sorry, but your Impala…"

Dean jerked upright. "What about it?"

"Sir, could you please just come to the office?"

Dean growled, slamming the phone down and standing up, blinking when he overbalanced slightly.

"Everythin' okay?" Sam asked, his voice tired.

"I gotta go out for a sec. You gonna be okay for five minutes?" Dean replied. Sam nodded, waving a hand tiredly. Dean scooted around the bed and headed out, shutting the door behind him.

Sleep was pulling gently at Sam's conscious and it nearly had him when a loud rapping sounded on the door. He groaned and hauled himself up, bumping unsteadily into Dean's bed. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Did you forget your keys again?" he grumbled as he opened the door. He gave a surprised yelp when the door was knocked open fully and a man barrelled in, shoving him up against the wall, a hand clamping over his mouth. His fuzzy vision focused on the man's face.

"Evening, Sam" Thomas greeted him. A muffled shout escaped from beneath his hand as recognition set in. Sam thrashed, bringing his arms up and wrenching Thomas' hand from his face, knocking him back. He aimed a punch at Thomas' head but his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, allowing Thomas to duck easily. Thomas lashed out at Sam's face, slamming his cheek with a balled fist. Sam fell back, dazed but panic took over, fuelling his moves. He sidestepped again and stumbled for the door.

"DEAN!"

Thomas latched onto his arm, throwing him back into the room before he slammed the door shut. Sam righted himself, squaring off against the Englishmen who stood between him and freedom.

"Sam, this doesn't need to be violent. Calm down and it will be a lot easier on both of us" Thomas stated, that familiar, soothing tone sending ripples of fear through Sam. His eyes gazed around wildly, still struggling to focus – why couldn't he focus? – as he brought his fists up in front of him.

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" he snarled, sounding more confident than he felt. Where the hell was Dean?!

Thomas flew forward, feinting left and driving right. He caught Sam off-guard landing a hit to his stomach, doubling him over. Sam gasped as the air rushed from his lungs, one arm snaking around his stomach protectively as the other was caught by Thomas. He righted himself, managing to elbow the other man, catching his jaw. Thomas stumbled back but drove forward without missing a beat. They grappled again, Sam's punches clumsy and weaker than they should have been. He just needed to fight long enough for Dean to get back. That's all he needed.

Yet, Thomas was relentless.

He caught a hold of Sam's wrist again, twisting his arm back viciously and yanking it behind his back. His foot connected with the back of Sam's knees, dropping him to the floor, bending him forwards over the edge of the bed. Thomas straddled him, pressing his torso down into the mattress, catching his other wrist and holding it against his back like the other one.

"Let go of me!" Sam roared, struggling desperately.

"Shush, it's alright, Sam. Calm down. It'll be alright" Thomas soothed as he dropped the bag that had been slung over his shoulder onto the bed next to his ward. Keeping an iron grip on both of Sam's wrists with one hand, he pulled a length of rope from the bag with the other. He crossed Sam's wrists over each other, binding them together tightly with the rope, leaving a long end hanging, all the while ignoring his thrashing and shouting.

"You son of a bitch. Let me go! DEAN!" Sam yelled, trying to knock out Thomas' legs with his own but he was at the wrong angle and barely grazed him. He gasped in pain when Thomas grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked up, shoving a wadded cloth into his open mouth. He howled and writhed, bucking furiously.

"Nearly done, Sam" Thomas murmured calmly as he pulled off a strip of silver duct tape and pressed it over Sam's mouth, sealing in the cloth. He pulled the Winchester up and away from the mattress, winding the long end of rope that secured his wrists around his stomach. Thomas looped it a few more times, making sure it went back over Sam's bound arms. He tied it off and helped the Winchester to his feet. Sam twisted and tugged but his arms were completely secure, pressing into the small of his back. He moaned as Thomas pushed him back onto the bed, lifting his legs up so that he was lying flat. Sam kicked out again but missed; Thomas wasn't a fool. He pulled a cable tie from his bag, snaring it over Sam's ankles, binding them together. "It's only temporary, Sam; a few more minutes and we'll be out of here" Thomas explained, patting Sam's leg comfortingly. The hunter glared up at him. Grabbing a bottle from the bag, he folded a white handkerchief and poured a small amount of the clear liquid onto it.

"Come here" Thomas said softly, wrapping a hand under Sam's head, holding him still as he pressed the cloth over his nose. Sam moaned and thrashed, but Thomas held firm. His panicked lungs drew in an unintentional breath, sucking in the fumes.

Thomas held on until his struggles lessened, pulling away a second or so later. He wanted Sam incapacitated not unconscious.

Picking up the bag, Thomas moved back across the room, placing it by the door. He pulled out a small black box, flicking it on with a thumb. Glancing back over at Sam, he smiled softly. The Winchester was on his side, facing him, trying to get a full grip on consciousness.

Thomas moved into position and waited.

oOo

Dean stalked back to the room. Damned teenagers. If they'd pranked a real agent, they'd be in so much trouble. He was sure they were probably hiding around a corner somewhere laughing at him when he'd stormed into the office only to be met with a gnarly old woman who ranted and raved at him about the trouble they'd had with the youth of today.

Reaching their room, he slotted in the key and opened the door, grumbling as he entered.

"Damned kids are nothin' but-"

A muffled yelled had his head snapping up, eyes widening in horror when he saw his little brother bound and gagged, lying on the bed. Sam thrashed his head, desperate yells that were unintelligible filling the air as he tried to motion at something.

A sharp blast of agony shot through Dean from his shoulder, dropping him to his knees. His whole body went rigid as electricity sparked through him. He lay convulsing on the floor, locking eyes with a cold blue that glared down at him.

"Dean Winchester. You took someone very dear to me. I'm going to be repay the favour" the man snarled, his lip curled in disdain. Dean watched helplessly as he walked across the room towards his brother. Try as he might, Dean couldn't get his muscles to cooperate. They spasmed uncontrollably.

Thomas produced a small knife, severing the cable tie holding Sam's ankles.

"Time to go, Sam" he remarked, hauling Sam up by his arm. The Winchester fought the lingering grogginess, struggling and digging in his heels as Thomas dragged him forcibly across the room. His calls for his brother barely made it passed the gag in his mouth, the cloth weighing down his tongue.

"No…Sammy…" Dean choked, trying to rise. Thomas adjusted his grip on Sam, leaning down and jabbing at Dean with the taser a second time. A shriek of pain ripped from Dean's throat as he shook and quivered on the floor, barely conscious. He watched, horrified, helpless, as his brother was dragged from the room. The last thing he heard was the stifled call of his name before the door slammed shut and consciousness failed him.

Thomas grappled with Sam, shoving him into the back of the BMW. He didn't have time to see to Sam properly – not yet; there were too many people nearby. He pulled the cloth from his back pocket and shoved it back over Sam's face, holding him firmly, until he stopped wriggling completely. He smiled softly.

"It's alright, Sam. You're with me now."

oOo

 **Please review!**


	8. Captive Audience

**Okay, so I'm no expert on the after effects of being tasered other than what Dr Google tells me. Therefore, I'm taking some creative liberties (as I do with all medical stuff since I am not actually a doctor!).**

 **I am a big believe in lots of detail (sorry, not sorry!).**

 **Full steam ahead on the Sammy Angst Train!**

OOo

 _"I see what's mine and take it."_

 _\- Emperor's New Clothes, Panic! At the Disco_

oOo

 **I-35 South, Outskirts of Story City, Iowa**

Thomas hummed to himself quietly, enjoying the soft classical concerto that poured gently through the car speakers. He'd already called Anna, informing her of his successful trip; she'd been so pleased. His eyes were fixed on the dark world ahead, the headlights illuminating the grey asphalt of the road. There were few other cars around; most people were home in bed by now. It was a work day, after all.

A muffled thumping noise reverberated around the car. Thomas checked both wing mirrors quickly – definitely not a blown tire. He would have felt it go.

Ah. Sam.

"Okay, Sam, just hold on a few more minutes" he called. He was surprised; the chloroform mixed with the narcotic should have been enough to keep him sedated for longer than they'd travelled so far. His nerves were in a worse state that Thomas had predicted. He would have stopped earlier, but he couldn't be too careful. At least they weren't in a city anymore. Not that Sam knew that. The thumping continued.

Spotting a junction up ahead, Thomas moved the car smoothly over, taking the slip road off. They travelled a little further, Sam's kicks becoming louder and more frequent. His charge was nothing if not incessant. He could hardly blame Sam though; it wasn't going to be an easy transition for him.

Thomas indicated and pulled into a narrow side road, driving until he found a small, secluded layby. Perfect. He slowed the car to a standstill and cut the engine. Reaching up, he turned on the interior lights, grabbed his bag from the passenger seat and stepped out of the car.

The thuds were loud and frantic in the silent darkness. Thomas scanned the area; there wasn't a single point of light anywhere – no streetlights, no headlights.

They were alone.

Raising the tailgate, Thomas found Sam lying on his back, his long legs facing the back end of the car.

"So much racket, Sam; there really isn't a need for it. There's no one around, see?" Thomas chided, motioning with one arm behind him as he reached into his bag. Sam dug his heels in and dragged himself forward, managing to get his legs to hang over the edge of the car. Thomas caught him quickly before he could stand. "No, no, no. None of that Sam. You're not going anywhere," he said gently as he turned and sat down on the edge of the tailgate, holding Sam's legs under one arm, keeping his grip firm when Sam kicked out and struggled. Thomas pulled a wide leather strap from the bag, lassoing it around Sam's ankles before cinching it tight and buckling it. Grabbing another, he reached under the hunter's thighs and repeated the process, locking his legs together.

Sam moaned and wriggled when Thomas dropped his legs, trying desperately to prise them apart. He couldn't. His wide eyes met Thomas' studious blue ones, fear gripping him as he watched the Man of Letters think.

He wasn't done.

"Over we go" Thomas remarked as he hauled Sam over onto his stomach. Selecting a new length of rope, he threaded it through the one wrapped around Sam's middle, just above his hands. Sam squirmed beneath him, fighting as Thomas forcibly bent his legs back. He growled, trying desperately to kick out. "I'm sorry, Sam, but I have no choice if you're going to insist on making such a ruckus the whole way there. Think before you act" Thomas reprimanded as he attached the rope to the straps around his ankles, creating a short tether. He finished and moved back, satisfied when Sam's attempts to move were sufficiently restricted. Thomas slid out of the back of the car and moved around to the rear passenger door. He leaned in and collapsed the seats, removing the barrier between the front and Sam. He smiled at Sam. "That's better. Not so lonely now. Right. Let's see what we can do about that gag" he chirped, leaning around and grabbing his bag again. Sam watched him suspiciously. Thomas cupped a hand gently under his chin, peeling back a corner of the duct tape, apologising as it pulled at Sam's skin, making him wince. Once it was removed, he balled it up and caught Sam's expectant look. He sighed, shaking his head.

"Not yet, Sam" he answered the unspoken question, pulling a black bandana from the bag. Sam groaned and shook his head frantically, trying urgently to wriggle away from his captor but he could barely move. Thomas folded it and hooked it around his mouth, tipping Sam's head down as he tied it tightly behind his head. He brushed a hand back through Sam's hair comfortingly, the younger man grunting indignantly at the unwanted contact.

Thomas got out and shut the door, returning to the back of the car, where he retrieved his bag. He shut the tailgate and made his way back to the driver's side. He slid back into the seat and turned to face Sam, opening his mouth to speak. He frowned. Sam had rolled onto his side, despite his restraints, panting heavily, a thin layer of sweat already forming on his brow. He just wasn't going to lie still, was he? Thomas sighed; if he left Sam like that, he was likely to injure himself, particularly given the state of some of the roads they were going to travel down. The last thing Thomas wanted was for Sam to be thrown around when they went around corners. And he was going to wear himself out trying to get free. Poor lad – he was clearly too upset for his own good. Thomas couldn't risk sedating him, not after he'd already done so and it hadn't worked.

Well, better safe than sorry.

Reaching over, he pulled two adjustable nylon straps with metal carabiners on both ends from the bag – tie downs for securing heavy cargo on truck beds. Getting out of the driver's seat again, he made his way back to the rear of the car and lifted the tailgate. Thomas reached for the luggage hook high up on the left side of the trunk. He clipped on one of the carabiners then turned to fasten the other end around the tether between Sam's wrists and ankles. He grabbed Sam's legs, helping him back onto his stomach. Sam twisted his head, watching him in confusion, breathing heavily through his gag. Without a word, Thomas began adjusting the strap, tightening it.

When he was satisfied, he clipped the carabiner of the second strap to Sam's tether and stepped over to the right-hand side of the trunk where another luggage hook mirrored the first. As he secured the final carabiner, he noted the horrified whimpers escaping Sam's gag. He understood Thomas' intentions and knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He writhed desperately anyway.

As Thomas tightened the second strap, it tugged on Sam's tether. He moved across to the first strap again and tightened it further. By now, the two straps were pulling against each other, holding the hunter firmly in place, subduing him. Just a few more adjustments and the straps were so taut, they plucked the rope away from Sam's body, hoisting up his ankles. Sam could squirm as much as he pleased, but there was no longer any slack for him to roll over. He would remain in this position for the duration of their journey: nice and snug, safe and sound.

He slammed the door shut against Sam's frustrated howl, slipping back up into the driver's seat. He adjusted the rear-view mirror so that he could monitor the Winchester as he drove. The hunter was glaring up at him, furious, but helpless to object. Thomas sighed and gave a tiny, apologetic smile as he started the car.

"Oh, Sam, I realise you're not comfortable, and we've got a long road ahead of us, but trust me: I'm working in your best interests. I promise."

oOo

 **Mason City, Iowa**

Consciousness was tidal; ebbing and flowing, within his grasp and then slipping away again. The harder he fought to rise above it, the harder it was to hold on to. Somewhere, deep within the hunter's subconscious, Dean knew he'd been drugged. Tasers hurt like hell but waking after being shot with one wasn't this hard.

Somewhere out beyond the heavy blanket of grogginess, he could hear the shrill ringing of a phone. Why wasn't Sam answering it? It was so irritating. All he wanted to do was sleep…

He shouldn't though. Why not? There was a reason. Something important. He'd lost something. Something he needed. What was it? Sam would know.

Sam…

A deep guttural moan reverberated around the small motel room as Dean reared up above the clawing fog in his head. Everything ached. Red hot agony throbbed through his left shoulder blade as awareness began to echo through his body. He was lying on something hard and flat. Not a bed – of that he was certain. He should probably open his eyes. That would help.

Dazed green eased open, blinking drowsily, fighting to focus. A dark brown stretched out beneath his cheek, the closest sections blurred. Probably a good thing, really; who knew what really lurked in a motel room carpet…

But why was he on the floor?

Frustration fuelled Dean as he slowly pushed himself upright, his arms trembling. His memory was blank and fleeting; the hint of it bubbling just beyond his reach: like when he heard a song and tried to remember its name but the more he tried the harder it was to remember. He managed to get upright, falling back against something – the bed – which shot pain straight through his shoulder when he landed on it. Groaning, he winced, reaching a hand up to probe at the sore area on his back. He let himself just sit there for a moment, head back against the bed, eyes closed, legs stretched out, tensing and untensing different muscles to see what hurt. The conclusion? Everything.

"Sam? Dude, I think I'm dyin'" he moaned, wanting his brother's sympathy. Silence answered. Dean's brow creased and his eyes opened. He hauled himself up and turned, peering over the edge of his bed. "Sammy?"

The room behind him was empty. His memories of earlier tugged harder. Slowly, one by one, they slotted into place before avalanching out of control.

Case files. Phone call. The Impala. Stupid kids. Sam on the bed. A stranger.

Sam being taken.

Dean's heart stopped.

Adrenaline surged like wildfire, launching the Winchester to his feet. Pain forgotten, he stumbled towards the door, yanking it open and almost falling out into the darkness. He looked around wildly at the deserted parking lot. There was no one there.

"SAMMY!" he yelled, not caring who he woke. In the distance, a dog barked. He ran to the Impala, cupping his hands and peering inside. Empty. This couldn't be happening. He'd just got Sam back! Yanking his phone from his pocket, he squinted down at the glare of the screen, noting a missed call from Cas and the time: 1.36am. He'd gone to the front desk around 10.45pm. His mouth went dry.

Sam had been gone for nearly 3 hours.

Swiping quickly, he pressed the call icon next to his brother's name.

Then he prayed.

oOo

 **I-35 S, Outskirts of Elkhart, Iowa**

Sam dropped his forehead to the floor of the car, panting heavily. He rested, trying to rein in his helpless frustration. They had stopped again, Thomas reassuring him that he wouldn't be long. Of course, that was no reassurance at all. Sam hoped – prayed – that he got hit by a car or mugged; anything that meant he couldn't come back. Not that Sam was under any illusion that he could free himself. He'd tried – tried like hell – but there was absolutely no give in any of his restraints. The straps anchoring him in place remained taut and unyielding, the rope around his wrists had rubbed and chafed and the more he twisted his hands the tighter it got. Thomas was no fool; he knew all of Sam's tactics after nearly four months of keeping him controlled. The worst part was that Sam knew he would go to the extremes; the Englishman had no qualms with that at all.

No, his best chance was someone else finding him. If Thomas didn't come back, someone would eventually notice the abandoned car. Or Sam had to get the car noticed. But, try as he might, he couldn't even rock the damned thing. He strained and wriggled, but the short tether between his wrists and ankles left him unable to kick out and he wasn't close enough to either side to try and make a noise with any other part of his body. Outside, the world was dark; Sam had no idea where they were. They could have been in the middle of nowhere or at a rest stop. He couldn't see anything out of the windows.

Something pulsed against his leg, making him jump. Shifting slightly, lifting his head, he frowned as a soft vibrating sound rumbled through the floor of the car and tingled against his leg.

His phone.

He couldn't believe it! Thomas had actually forgotten to take it!

Hope soared through him and he thrashed wildly, bucking his hips and tugging desperately on his wrists. If he could just reach into his pocket, he could text Dean. Then this whole nightmare would be over. The rope securing his wrists to his torso refused to budge and he growled in annoyance as he tried to inch his fingers towards his pocket. They weren't even close.

The buzzing stopped.

Sam collapsed, letting the straps hold his weight as he regained his breath. It had to have been Dean. It was fine; it was on vibrate only; over the sound of the car, Thomas wouldn't even realise he had it.

Sam just had to get to it before he noticed.

The lock popped on the driver's door, signalling Thomas' return before he opened it. Sam glared balefully up at him as he climbed in, holding a takeaway coffee cup in one hand which he placed in the cup holder by the gear shift.

"How are you holding up Sam? Are you alright?" he asked, with what seemed to be genuine concern on his face. Sam averted his gaze, turning his face away and glaring up and out of the window petulantly. "Now, Sam, we've always had an honest relationship. I know this is hard for you but it will be so much easier if you cooperate. Manners don't cost anything, you know."

Manners? What the hell did Thomas know about manners? It was hardly like he was expecting a real response from the Winchester with the insufferable gag in his mouth. Sam huffed, still refusing to look at him. It was his choice and currently it was the only one he could exercise.

He heard Thomas sigh, watching him pull out his phone in his peripheral vision.

"I'm sorry for the late call, Anna, but I just wanted to check in. We've stopped for a bit of a break but we'll be on our way again shortly. Are you alright?" Thomas asked.

Anna? Wasn't she…?

Sam's stomach plummeted. She was Toni's housekeeper. Sam had had barely anything to do with her so why was she here? What the hell did they want with him? Surely they had to know that there was no way Sam was ever going to say yes to Lucifer now? Thomas was smart; he knew better than that. Sam frowned in confusion as he slid his curious gaze back towards the Man of Letters.

 _You took someone very dear to me. I'm going to be repay the favour._

Thomas' remark to Dean rang in his ears but still it didn't make any sense. They had to know Dean would come for him. With a sinking feeling, the Winchester realised that maybe that was exactly what they wanted.

He jumped when he felt his phone start to vibrate again. His eyes widened. No! Not now! The gadget rumbled loudly against the floor. Sam tried to tilt himself to the side, to move the device away from the hard surface but he couldn't get enough leverage. The noise seemed deafening.

"Yes Anna I-"

Thomas looked in the rear-view mirror at Sam. The hunter groaned loudly, thrashing his head, trying desperately to cover the noise.

"Hang on, Anna. I'll call you back. Sam needs me." He hung up his own phone, the vibration of Sam's still ringing in the hunter's ears. Thomas opened the car door, disappearing from view. The phone stopped. Sam huffed with relief. Maybe Thomas hadn't heard it.

Time slowed.

The passenger door on Sam's left opened and Thomas leaned in, hovering over Sam who looked up at him through the locks of hair that had fallen over his eyes.

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Sam?" Thomas asked, his tone stern and patronising. Sam shook his head. Thomas frowned. "I wish you wouldn't lie to me. Where is it?" The hunter just stared up at him silently. Thomas scooted in, kneeling on the collapsed seat as he leaned forwards, balancing on one hand as the other groped at the back pockets of Sam's jeans. Sam's angry shouts were mere whispers as he writhed helplessly. The straps held him in place. Thomas' hand moved down to his left pocket, pulling out a jack knife, which he threw onto the front passenger seat. He reached over Sam, ignoring his hushed protests, aiming for his other front pocket. Sam tried to rock, to press down on that side so that the older man couldn't reach in. He pressed his hips down; they were the only part of his body he could really move. Unfazed, Thomas grabbed the rope that was wrapped around his middle and pulled, tilting Sam over an inch or two. A hopeless whimper of frustration sounded from the Winchester as he felt his phone glide smoothly out of his pocket and into Thomas' hands.

The Man of Letters held it up, swiping at the screen as Sam wrenched his body angrily, wanting nothing more than to throttle his captor there and then.

"So it would seem Dean finally woke up" Thomas remarked, turning the phone and showing Sam the two missed calls from his brother. Turning it back, Thomas switched it off and levelled Sam with a stern look. "This is your first warning, Sam. You know I'm a fair man but I don't like being lied to. That's not a display of trust, is it? I'll make allowances because you're obviously stressed, but I won't accept such defiance in the future. Do you understand?"

Sam scowled up at him. Thomas reached out and grabbed his chin, tilting his head up.

"I said: do you understand?"

Sam grunted, trying to pull away. Satisfied, Thomas let go and stood up. Sam's eyes followed his phone. "You won't be needing this again. I think the car's weight will be enough to break it, don't you?" Sam's eyes widened and he cried out as Thomas slammed the door shut. A moment later, he was back in the driver's seat, setting up the car's Bluetooth so that he could call Anna back. He reversed, the car bumping minutely as it rolled over Sam's phone.

Sam hung his head, defeated.

oOo

 **Mason City, Iowa**

Dean nearly threw his phone in vexation. He hadn't expected Sam to pick up – not really. If his abductor had been meticulous enough to orchestrate taking Sam in the middle of a hunt, he wasn't going to be the type of guy to let him hang onto his phone. The Winchester had half-hoped that Sam's assailant would pick up – do the stereotypical thing of goading Dean – but he didn't. By the time he called for a third time, Sam's phone went straight to voicemail. It had to have been turned off. There was no way Dean could track its GPS if it wasn't live.

Rather than throwing the phone, he flipped it over, swiping Cas' number. The angel picked up on the second ring.

"It was a dead end, Dean. The trail went co-"

"Sam's gone!" Dean interrupted, cold realisation washing over him as the shock began to set in. He had let it happen. He had watched and done nothing.

Silence met him from the other end.

"What do you mean 'Sam's gone'?" Cas asked, his low voice grainy over the connection. Dean dragged a hand down over his face as he sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

"He was taken. I stepped out of the room for a few minutes and when I came back…" The image of his brother on the bed flashed through his mind, bringing a wave of nausea with it. He swallowed it back down. "Some guy was here. He tased me and took Sam. I only just woke up. It was hours ago, Cas; he could be anywhere!"

"Where are you Dean?" Cas' voice stayed calm, anchoring the hunter.

"Comandeer Inn, Mason City."

"Stay there. I will be there as fast as I can. I know you'll want to head straight out but it's pointless. If you don't know where Sam's gone, we need to get all the information we can first from your room."

"Drive fast" Dean murmured as he ended the call. It went against every instinct Dean had, but he knew the angel was right. He couldn't do this alone and he was in no fit state to drive as it was. His body trembled and twitched, dark spots constantly popping up in his vision. His hands quivered as he fought back tears, swiping at his next contact and waited for it to connect.

"Dean? Are you okay?" Jody's voice, thick with sleep, washed over him like a comforting embrace. Dean's voice was small, fractured.

"I need you, Jody. Please come."

oOo

 **I-35 South, Outskirts of Overland Park, Kansas**

Thomas sighed, content. Was there truly anything better than a quiet road and Beethoven whispering up through the speakers? It was pure aural bliss. Of all the classical artists, Beethoven was his favourite, his most treasured. The composer made him feel so many emotions; he wept during the tender notes of Fur Elise, felt the power of the Fifth Symphony soar through his veins and let his heart sing in Ode to Joy. Now, the delicate tones of the Moonlight Sonata washed over him, relaxing the tension from his shoulders and clearing his mind. It had been a long day and drive, yet it had been worth every second.

He checked the rear-view mirror, smiling softly at his ward. Sam was lying with his head turned to the side, resting it on the floor. He had been understandably distressed after Thomas had confiscated his phone, but it wasn't like Thomas had had a choice. Sam had to have known that; he couldn't blame his guardian. The hunter had grown quiet, relaxing as Thomas played Beethoven, helping Sam take his mind off his discomfort. He had encouraged Sam to try sleeping, but he was a stubborn one. That was nothing new, although Thomas hadn't seen the defiant glint in his eyes appear so strongly since the first time they'd met. He smiled reminiscently.

"Taking care of you has been my highest priority for the last four months, Sam," he mused, catching Sam's eye when the hunter lifted his head. The hunter glowered silently up at him through the bangs that had fallen over his eyes. "We've always had a mutual respect; you can't deny it. I know what Miss Toni did to you was hard – I'll admit: even downright cruel at times – but I was always there to pick you up afterwards. Your wellbeing is important to me; I know you think I'm being a tad severe but I'm only trying to protect you…" The hunter growled in response, apparently unconvinced, so Thomas tried reassuring him. "It's what I've always done – right from our first day together. You were boisterous, rebellious; the same as you are now, but we worked through it then and we'll do the same again." As he spoke, Sam's indignant frown collapsed into a wide-eyed look of alarm. He shook his head fervently, whimpering through his gag. Thomas gave him an encouraging smile.

"Don't you remember all the times I helped you?"

oOo

 ** _Kensington, London: 4 months earlier_**

 _Sam Winchester was a most curious creature. He possessed a strength of will unlike many Thomas had seen, even amongst the Men of Letters. The way the hunter had fought was savage and desperate when they had escorted him inside the house. It was a brutality Thomas hadn't come across often. Hunters were just thugs and he knew that yet…there was something different about Sam Winchester._

 _Toni had ordered him to be left alone for a few hours, despite Thomas' cautions about his reopened leg wound. James was much more carefree about using pain as a weapon than Thomas had ever been. Sometimes it just wasn't necessary; Thomas had caught Sam – James had had no need to disturb the wound other than to satisfy his own maliciousness._

 _The Man of Letters had descended, with James, into the room adjoining Sam's cell where they could watch the hunter through the two-way glass. The hunter was scouring his room inch by inch, his limp pronounced as he worked his way around the whole room, studying, calculating. It was quite astonishing; Thomas had expected him to be kicking at the door still, creating a racket and being generally, well, thuggish. To see the calm façade of a man who was calculating, scheming and using his mind without panicking brought admiration to the forefront of Thomas' mind. Yes, Sam Winchester was a hunter but he was not as brutish as the stereotype suggested. However, Sam was arguably more dangerous than a regular hunter. But he was also more likely to respond to reason._

 _Collecting his keys and his bag, Thomas proceeded to the door of the cell, James trailing behind him. He opened it cautiously, ready to slam it shut at a moment's notice, but nothing happened. Slipping inside quickly, he saw Sam on the opposite site of the room, a wild, coltish look in his eyes when he saw James blocking the doorway behind Thomas._

 _"Alright, Sam, we're going to take this nice and slow, okay?" Thomas soothed, holding his hands up, showing that he was weaponless. Sam glared at him suspiciously, his body taut. "I'm here to help you. I would rather not resort to violence."_

 _"I wouldn't mind" James grinned malevolently. Thomas ignored him._

 _"I can imagine that your bullet wound is rather sore by now; I'd like to help with that." His tone stayed soft and calm as though he was confronting a feral beast. He stepped closer. "But to do that, I need you to cooperate with me. I know it won't mean a lot to you yet, but I promise I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to help. Can you let me do that?"_

 _He watched the hunter shift on his feet, favouring his right leg, tension radiating from him in waves. His eyes constantly darted between Thomas and James, trying to watch them both simultaneously. "James won't hurt you while I'm here, Sam. You have my word."_

 _James snorted but didn't move. Sam stared at them both warily, but eventually his eyes fixed on Thomas. He gave a small nod. Thomas smiled encouragingly._

 _"Okay, good. I need you to move to the bed and sit down for me, Sam" he instructed, keeping his voice smooth yet firm. Sam limped to the small bed and eased himself down, groaning in pain as he winced. "Good lad; thank you, Sam" Thomas praised as he stepped forwards. He set his bag down on a small table positioned over to the left of the bed, pulling out a black nylon strap with two carabiners on each end. Sam's eyes widened and he shifted uneasily, his gaze flicking between the two men. Thomas approached him, keeping his hands up. "Alright, Sam. Now we don't know each other yet and I can't risk you bolting so I need to secure you while I do this. However, if you let me do that, I will make you more comfortable by removing your gag and giving you some water; I'm sure you're thirsty. Can you do that for me?" he explained, watching the Winchester carefully, prepared for trouble._

 _Sam sighed deeply and closed his eyes, bowing his head and giving a small nod. He was smart; he'd had one failed escape attempt that day and with a wounded leg and James in the doorway, he wasn't likely to get another chance now. Reason told him that getting a few comforts back was a fair trade for his cooperation._

 _Thomas leaned around him and clipped one carabiner to the metal frame that ran along the long edge of the bed, looping it through Sam's wrists before clipping the second one. As promised, he reached up and untied the cloth from around Sam's mouth, pulling the wad out as well. Sam groaned and closed his jaw, letting the muscles finally relax. He licked dry lips as Thomas unscrewed a water bottle and held it up for him. Sam drank greedily like he hadn't had anything for days, only slowing when Thomas tipped the bottle downwards._

 _"That's it, Sam, well done. See? You can trust me." Thomas smiled, taking the bottle back when Sam finished it. He put it on the table and collected his medical kit. "Now then, let's get that leg sorted, shall we?"_

oOo

Remember it? It was hardly like Sam could forget it. It was his first taste of captivity within Toni's household, the first time he'd had to stoop to cooperating just to get a fleeting whisper of what felt like control.

Lying there, unable to argue or interrupt Thomas' galling reminiscence was beyond frustrating and, try though he might, none of his muted protests stopped the Englishman from recounting his fond memories. Watching Thomas' almost blissful expression in the mirror was sickening; he honestly seemed to have _enjoyed_ 'helping' Sam (it definitely wasn't the term Sam would use) and clearly thought that Sam felt indebted to him.

Contempt filled the Winchester; Thomas was abhorrent. Yet terror seeped through his veins slowly like ice. Toni had put him through hell and there was no telling what Thomas was going to do. He'd given no hints about what he wanted with Sam for the whole drive other than that he was going to 'care' for him. The notion scared the hell out of him.

What he needed was to find out where he was going. Any kind of landmark would do – hell, even seeing the terrain would help. The darkness was slowly beginning to dissipate, turning the world grey rather than black as dawn approached. When Thomas eventually stopped the car, Sam could use that information when he prayed to Castiel. They would find him. Sam felt the car slow and curve around a sharp bend, the straps straining against his body.

"We're nearly home" Thomas announced, a smile in his voice. Panic clawed at Sam. He needed to get out. To get home.

He needed Dean.

It made him feel twelve years old again to admit it, but Sam didn't care. Dean had always been Stone Number One, never more so than he had been for the last few days. He couldn't do this on his own – not again. The muscles in his arms stood out taut under his skin as he gave his arms yet another tug. His wrists were raw and painful after hours of struggling. He was incredibly stiff, particularly his knees; even if the opportunity arose, he wasn't convinced he'd even be able to run. No, he needed to concentrate; he had one shot to see where he was so that he could help Cas.

The car slowed as his heart raced.

Thomas turned off the engine and stretched. Bastard.

"Hang fire, Sam; I'll only be a few minutes" he remarked as he got out of the car. Yes, because of course Sam was going to be able to do anything else. The hunter rolled his eyes, grunting as he tried to rear up to see out of the window. He knew he wouldn't be able to see anything – he hadn't when they'd stopped before – but he had to try.

 _We don't get to quit in this family._

He would never quit; he would never stop fighting. If Thomas wanted a fight, then that was what he was going to get. _You're not strong enough and you know it_. The tiny voice of doubt goaded him again. He wasn't the same Sam he had been when he'd first been captured so long ago; he was a mere shell of that hunter. But he did have one advantage; _he_ knew that his brother was alive. Alive and hunting for him. And Sam would do his damnedest to help Dean out.

The passenger doors on either side of him opened. He looked up anxiously, first at Thomas, on his left, then at Anna who appeared on his right, the pair of them staring down at him.

"Good morning, Sam," Anna greeted briskly, "I hear you've been a bit of a nuisance already."

He frowned up at her, unaware of Thomas coming up behind him. Sam grunted in surprise when darkness suddenly descended.

Thomas was quick to fasten the blindfold snugly around Sam's eyes when the hunter realised what he was doing. He howled frantically, shaking his head, trying to dislodge Thomas' grip but the Man of Letters was not to be dissuaded.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I know all about your pet angel and how you can contact him. Miss Toni's notes were very thorough. You can pray to him as much as you like, but I can't allow you to give him any information that could lead him here" Thomas explained as he smoothed out the cloth with his thumbs. Sam jerked away, his breathing ragged as he moaned miserably.

He was completely helpless and he loathed it. They were taking everything from him. He jumped when both car doors slammed shut. Pressing his cheek into the floor of the car, he tried to hook the blindfold on something – anything – but it didn't budge. Straining his ears, Sam listened, shifting nervously when the tailgate eased up. An odd clicking noise reached him and he felt the tether between his wrists and ankles slacken, his legs finally able to drop an inch or so. The same noise happened again followed by the sound of the two carabiners being unclipped. He groaned when he felt Thomas grasp his calves and slide him down the length of the car.

Thomas reached in to undo the rope between Sam's wrists and ankles, struggling with the knots that had tightened after the hunter's ceaseless wriggling. Finally getting them loose, he unthreaded the cord and helped Sam stretch out his legs, listening to the drawn-out moan that emanated from the Winchester as his sore knees cracked. Turning him over, Thomas gripped the strap around his thighs and pulled him closer.

"Up you come," Thomas coaxed, clutching Sam's upper arm and helped him sit up. Sam whimpered softly, the small sound pulling at the older man's sympathies. He caressed Sam's arm with a thumb comfortingly. "Last bit of the journey Sam – I promise."

The Man of Letters stood up, edging Sam to the rim of the tailgate, dropping his long legs over the side.

Uneasiness filled Sam as Thomas tugged him up to a standing position. What the hell was he thinking? The hunter squirmed when he nearly overbalanced on his bound legs, the straps still tight around his ankles and thighs. The hand dropped from his arm, leaving him untouched for just a moment. Something hard pushed into his stomach, just above his hips, bending him in half. He fell forward involuntarily with a groan, panicking because he couldn't see. He felt the ground disappear beneath his feet as the hard surface dug into his stomach, nearly winding him, an arm snaking around to clamp over the back of his thighs. Frantic, he fought, bellowing forlornly as he felt Thomas begin to move.

"I know, Sam, I know" Thomas murmured as he strode across the lawn, keeping a firm hold of his wriggling charge. The hunter was no lightweight and the struggling wasn't helping. Thomas was thankful that he'd had the forethought to park in the garden close to the storm cellar. Anna stood next to the open steel door.

"Mind your head, Thomas" she warned, her eyes narrowing when she noted the rebellious hunter causing him bother as he carried him. Ungrateful swine.

Thomas smiled at her as he descended the steps and into the artificial light of the cellar. He knelt next to the bed, dropping his shoulder so that he could ease Sam onto the single cot. The hunter landed with a soft thump onto the mattress.

"There: you're safe, Sam" Thomas assured him, helping lift his legs up onto the bed. The older man brushed the errant locks from Sam's forehead tenderly, sighing when he jerked out from under his touch and bucked desperately against his remaining restraints. As much as it pained him, Thomas knew he should leave Sam to calm down on his own; he needed time to adjust and sleep. "I'm going to come back in a little while Sam – give you a chance to rest. I suggest you do just that. You'll feel much better for it." He patted Sam's arm and stood up, walking back towards the entrance, listening to the horrified moans coming from the hunter. He made to flip the light off but thought better of it – he hadn't yet set up the night vision on the CCTV camera and he needed to be able to keep an eye on Sam from the house. Between the blindfold and the other encumbrances, it wouldn't take long for Sam to settle; it never used to.

Climbing the steps, Thomas shut the steel door with a resounding echo, leaving Sam to wallow in his own despair.

oOo

 **I think that was one of the most intense chapters I've ever done!**

 **Please review!**


	9. Woke up This Morning

**Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews and, of course, to everyone who follows! I'm really glad that Thomas is provoking some pretty strong reactions!**

 **Thank you to MJ for all your help with this one whenever I got stuck!**

oOo

 _"I still hear him screaming 'where do I hide?'"_

 _\- Where Do I Hide?, Nickelback_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

"Thomas, you really ought to go and rest; you must be exhausted" Anna chided, standing in the doorway with her arms folded. Thomas gave her a worn smile that didn't quite reach the darkening blue of his eyes. His breakfast plate sat empty to one side of his laptop. The sun had risen, casting a soft yellow light into the farmhouse but the temperature hadn't quite picked up yet, leaving a blanket of glistening dew on the lawn beyond the window.

"I'll go soon, Anna; I just want to see Sam settle first or I shan't sleep for worrying" he replied, glancing at his watch. They'd been home for around an hour and the hunter had yet to calm down, leaving the Man of Letters concerned. Anna stood by his shoulder, her hard gaze focused on the clear video feed displayed on the computer. The camera was high definition – none of this grainy, half-lit rubbish – allowing them to watch Sam as if they were stood right beside him.

"You need to be firmer, Thomas; if you want him to settle, you must make him do so. It's the same with children – and animals – they need strong, clear boundaries to be established or he will walk all over you. You need to re-establish that from your time with him before or he won't learn. Mark my words: if you give him an inch now, that boy will run a mile" she remarked, her tone cold, almost exasperated.

"He'll be alright, Anna; he won't have forgotten the most important boundaries. It's a difficult time for Sam – I need to allow him time to adjust."

"Well, you're much more lenient that I am. I'd be stamping on this uncooperative nonsense already, but you must do what you think is best" she answered, collecting his breakfast things and striding from the room. Thomas turned his attention back to the laptop, his gaze focused on his charge.

oOo

Sam was exhausted but he couldn't let himself stop. He was alone (as far as he could tell) and should take the opportunity to free himself. Except…that was easier said than done. He had no idea how long he'd struggled for – it could've been hours or minutes – but his bonds were unyielding. The straps around his legs were never going to loosen; they were buckled tightly and he needed to be able to use his hands to undo them. He'd twisted onto his stomach, trying to stretch his ankles up closer to his hands, but, with the damned rope fastening his arms to the small of his back, he couldn't quite make it – not even when he arched his body to a painful degree.

He rolled himself around, onto his back again, trying to work out his next move. He needed to know where he was. Thomas had descended a staircase whilst carrying Sam, suggesting he was somewhere underground. The air had been cool and fresh outside, compared to the stuffiness of the car, but the air around him now had a vaguely musty tang to it; like the room wasn't used very often. Again, that was typical of almost any basement or cellar. Sam strained his ears, listening intently, but, wherever he was, there was only silence; no traffic, no voices, no city racket. He had to be somewhere in the country – in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't a comforting thought.

If only he could see.

Thomas had left him completely vulnerable: blind, mute and restricted. It was a display of utter dominance; Sam had no rights, wasn't allowed to voice any protests unless Thomas allowed it. The enforced submission bothered the hunter more than it should; after all, it wasn't like he hadn't been in this position before. Yet, he still found himself constantly fighting off the waves of panic that threatened to pull him under.

Shoving it down as best he could, he'd taken stock of what else was around him. He was on a bed – a single one, based on the edges he could feel when he ran his feet along the width of it; it was only just long enough for his tall frame, although there was no real footboard, just a metal frame that was the same height as the mattress. Exploring it again with his feet, he found it was squared at the edges with two short posts that jutted up on either side. If they were at one end, there were probably matching ones at the top end too. Grunting, he wriggled his way up to the top of the bed, wincing when he bumped into the headboard. Definitely metal. Definitely squared off. Lifting his cheek and running it along the edge of the metal, Sam tried to find the post at the end of the headboard. He had no idea what kind of edge it would have but he needed something that he could snag the blindfold on so that he could get it off – even if it took him all day.

He couldn't – wouldn't – let Thomas win.

The metal left a trail of cold along his skin as he shifted himself, wriggling over to try and find it. Something cold brushed against the hair that had fallen over his forehead; he'd found the post. Satisfaction filled him. It was higher than the ones at the foot of the bed and Sam had to struggle up further to try and rear up to the top of it. It wasn't particularly tall, but, without the use of his arms, it wasn't easy. Lining it up against his cheek, just below where he could feel the cloth of the blindfold, Sam tilted his head down, trying to catch the edge of it.

Nothing.

His second, and third, attempts yielded the same frustrating results. He clenched his jaw, biting down on his gag, growling in annoyance. Shifting yet again, Sam could feel himself getting precariously closer to the edge of the small bed, his knees nearly hanging off. He was trembling by now; the physical exertion was taking its toll on his nerves and it had been well over twenty-four hours since he'd slept. Breakfast with Dean in the bunker seemed like a lifetime ago. His heart ached. Yet he couldn't dwell on it now – not if he wanted his freedom. He used his emotions to stoke his determination; he _would_ get free. And he would start by getting the damned blindfold off! Bringing the side of his face up to the post yet again, Sam put more pressure into it, felt the edge of the blindfold lift – just a fraction – before it dropped back into place. He was so nearly there!

Sam had just stretched to catch the cloth again when a loud screech, deafening in his quiet world, made him jolt violently, involuntarily, the sudden movement tilting him too far forward. Without the use of his hands or legs, the hunter overbalanced and fell with a muffled yelp, unable to stop himself or buffer the impact. He smacked onto the concrete floor, landing on his back, his head striking the stone with a resounding crack, stars exploding behind his eyelids.

"Well, that wasn't very clever, was it, Sam?" Thomas chastised as he walked across the room. The Englishman was glad he'd decided enough was enough and had come down; Sam was a liability to himself. He gazed down at the prone hunter, kneeling down next to his head. Thomas reached a hand under his head. "Shhhhh, let me see" he soothed when Sam jerked, moaning as Thomas' fingers probed the back of his head, feeling a bump already starting to form but luckily there was no blood visible when he pulled his hand away. "This is why you should be more careful, Sam; that could've been dangerous. What if I hadn't come down? Clearly I can't trust you yet – but assuming that was my fault, not yours. It's easily rectified though – not to worry."

Standing up, he left Sam grumbling on the floor as he walked over to the shelf on the opposite side of the room. He picked up a water bottle and two pairs of wide brown leather cuffs, a short silver chain running between each attached a small metal loop. The prongs of the buckles were looped, like the eyelet of a needle, and were wide enough for the U-shaped shackle of a padlock to fit through. Sam's wrists were going to be a mess if he kept fighting against the rope; softer restraints would protect him, keeping him safe without Thomas having to worry about open wounds and infection.

Crossing back over to the bed, he sidestepped around Sam who had curled up into a ball on his side, still relentlessly twisting his wrists. Honestly, the lad was hopeless; he'd been restrained for hours and, even though nothing had changed, he still fought. He knew that when Thomas tied a knot, he did it properly. Well, whatever made him feel better, Thomas supposed. He unbuckled the straps on both sets of cuffs, looping one cuff of each pair around the posts at the head of the bed. He threaded two of the padlocks through the prongs, snapping them into place.

Returning to Sam, Thomas pulled him up to a sitting position and swivelled him around so that his back was against the bed. Sam tried to shrug off his hold, incoherent protests escaping the gag. The Man of Letters frowned; his pointless defiance was going to get very old, very quickly. Hooking a hand in each armpit, Thomas hoisted Sam back onto the bed.

Now for the tricky part.

"Right, Sam. We're going to have a bit of a shift around. You know the drill; the more cooperative you are, the easier it will be. That rule hasn't changed and you were always mindful of it during our time together in England. You know I'm a man of my word" Thomas explained carefully, noting the tension in his charge's shoulders. "Are you going to be good?"

The tension dropped, draining wearily from Sam's shoulders. He gave a tiny nod. Thomas scooped up Sam's legs and turned him so that that he was back on the bed properly.

Sam sat silently, willing his body to stay relaxed even though Thomas' touch made his skin crawl. It was torture with his lack of senses; everything was heightened – the sound of clinking that he couldn't identify; Thomas' soft, measured footfalls; his vexing, patronising tone. Alone in the dark, he had to fight not to fidget. The seconds dragged. He couldn't help flinching when he heard a quick slicing sound followed by a click. The rope around his middle tugged and pulled as Thomas began sawing through it; the knots must've become so tight that he couldn't undo them. It was almost ironic; if he had been able, Sam might have even laughed. Finally, the rope fell from around his waist, bringing with it the first taste of freedom. His wrists remained tightly bound.

"We're going to do the next part with absolutely no fuss. If there is any, there will be consequences. When I untie your wrists, you're going to lie back and raise your arms on either side of your head. Do you understand?" Thomas' voice was firm and clear. Sam could almost picture the stern set of his jaw; he'd seen it enough times. He nodded again, keeping his head bowed, waiting. Thomas brushed against him, his warm hand holding Sam's right wrist as he reached to slip the knife into the rope between his hands.

Sam sat perfectly still, calculating. Thomas would be behind him, just to the side. He would probably move a step to his right so that he could turn and face the headboard when Sam lay down. He would get rid of the knife quickly – probably just throwing it on the floor for the moment, knowing Sam couldn't find in blindfolded. He would have to bend down to reach the new restraints, bringing his head nearer to Sam. He would start with Sam's right wrist; it was closer. The ropes popped, Sam's arms falling free.

Finally.

His relief was tangible. He heard the knife clatter across the floor.

"Lie back, Sam" Thomas instructed, his tone laced with warning. Sam obeyed, easing himself backwards until his head hit the pillow. He moved his arms up. Heard the soft whisper of Thomas' step, the shift in his weight. Felt him grasp his right wrist.

Sam swung up with his left.

His balled fist connected with something that moved beneath the blow: Thomas' jaw. The hold on his wrist disappeared, the sound of Thomas hitting the floor reaching his ears. Sam shot up, reaching for the straps around his thighs, fumbling with the buckle. He unfastened it, letting it fall as he scooted down and reached blindly for the other one around his ankles.

He'd just managed to pull the strap from its loop when something – Thomas – tackled him, knocking him back flat on the bed. Sam growled, grappling with the older man who straddled his waist, trying to catch his hands. Sam landed another punch, this time on Thomas' chest but it wasn't enough to throw him. The hunter reached up to yank the blindfold up – getting it off hadn't been the priority; after all, John Winchester had taught his boys to spar sightless as children – but now he needed to even the playing field.

"No you don't!" Thomas barked, grabbing his hand as his fingers grazed the cloth. The Man of Letters wrenched his arm down forcibly. Sam felt the weight shift on top of him as Thomas' knee pressed down into the crook of his elbow, jamming his arm between the Englishman's leg and the mattress. Still Sam fought and bucked, swiping at his captor with his free hand until Thomas caught it in a vicelike grip and hauled it up. Sam bellowed with rage, thrashing furiously, trying to tug his other trapped arm free as he felt cold leather being snapped around his wrist. Thomas' hands disappeared and Sam pulled desperately at his cuffed hand. It wasn't tight but it didn't budge either. The knee lifted from his elbow as Thomas grabbed that wrist with both hands, wrestling to lift the hunter's arm up above his head. Sam yanked with everything he had, trying to keep his hand away from what he assumed was a matching restraint. He bent his legs, pushing up, aiming to buck Thomas off but the Man of Letters was relentless. One of the hands let go of his wrist momentarily and stars exploded behind his eyelids when Thomas backhanded him across the face. Dazed, his fighting ceased just enough for Thomas to trap his wrist in the second leather cuff, tightening it much more than the first. He dropped his hold and Sam pulled, the cuff clanking against the metal post. He moaned dismally through his gag as the first cuff was tightened. Two sharp snicks came from either side of him, sounding a lot like padlocks being snapped shut.

Thomas slid off the unruly reprobate, seething. He had never assumed Sam would be able to land such a hit without being able to see. It was a lesson the Englishman wasn't going to forget – that was certain.

"That, Samuel," he snarled as he retrieved the discarded strap from underneath Sam's legs, "was anything _but_ cooperative." Thomas wrapped the strap around Sam's thighs once again, cinching it tighter this time – pulling hard enough for it to lock in two holes higher than before. Sam howled, writhing when the leather dug into his skin. Well, he should have thought about his actions! "I gave you one warning in the car. I had expected that to have been enough," Thomas continued talking as he stalked over to the shelf, grabbing a chain and padlock before prowling back over to the hunter. "Clearly you think it's acceptable to push the boundaries." He threaded the chain through the underside of the strap around his ankles and then up through the same position of the one he'd just reattached. Jerking on the chain, he pulled the hunter's legs straight, looping the chain around the metal footboard, making sure it was taut, before padlocking it in place. He stepped back and glared down at the secured hunter who was panting heavily, trying to bend his legs up but the short chain kept his limbs straight. Thomas probed his tender cheek gently, wincing. It was going to leave an awful bruise. He picked up the water bottle, putting it back on the shelf.

"I _had_ originally come down here to remove your blindfold and gag, but it's obvious that you need the calm and quiet to help you reflect on the negative effects of your behaviour." Thomas understood Sam's stifled whimper of 'no' even through the gag. He put a hand over the Winchester's mouth, pressing down and holding his head still in a final display of dominance. Sam squirmed beneath him, pulling feebly on the cuffs around his wrists. "Now, you _are_ going to get some rest and then maybe – _maybe_ – we will discuss your behaviour. I'm very disappointed in you, Sam."

Sam felt the hand release his jaw and heard Thomas' footsteps move away. He hollered desperately after the Englishman, trying harder to talk – god help him, to apologise – than ever before but the cloth in his mouth weighed his tongue down, holding his words captive.

The door slammed shut on his muffled protests.

oOo

 **Mason City, Iowa**

Jody had floored it from Sioux Falls, making the whole journey in just over two hours, breaking the speed limit the entire way. It was a complete abuse of her police vehicle, but she didn't care and lord help the person who tried to stop her.

Dean was a mess. More so, perhaps, than he had been four months ago when he first told Jody that Sam had gone missing. Back then, he'd known that his brother was gone – taken – yet he hadn't been there to stop it.

This time he had.

At least, that's what he thought. As he brokenly told Jody everything that happened, she could see the guilt pressing down on him, dragging him down like an anchor.

She'd found him sitting on the edge of the bed just staring, almost catatonic, at the floor. Without a word, she'd tugged him into her arms, holding on when he tried to pull away – as if he didn't deserve the comfort – and finally getting him to let go. Dean had never cried in front of her before: not like this. She cradled his head and soothed him, brushing her fingers through the soft brown of his hair, whispering comforting nothings against the top of his head. Jody held him until he had no tears left to fall.

Her poor boys.

Anger filled her, radiating fire through her veins. How dare someone do this, again! She wasn't going to be side-lined this time; no, she was going to throttle whoever was responsible with her bare hands.

Despite his protests, Jody had made him rest, almost putting him into bed herself. He was no good to her half-dead and he was exactly that; she could see it in the exhausted, pained glint of his eyes. Only when she'd reassured him that she would start investigating straight away did he concede.

Now the pale morning sunshine forced its way in through the curtains as Jody entered the motel room, two coffees and a bag containing stacks of waffles clutched in one hand. Dean rushed out of the bathroom as soon as he heard the door open.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked as she put the breakfast items down on the table.

"Like shit," he replied, the dark circles under his eyes testament to his words. "What did you find?"

"Sit. Eat." She ordered, ignoring the question and motioning to the chair opposite her. Dean did as he was told, grabbing one of the coffees but leaving the food in the bag. "Okay, there's not a lot to go on – yet. The woman at the front desk said that she'd seen you around 10.30, which we knew, but no one checked out before or after that. No one has checked out this morning either. I think you should go and talk to her again, give her the description of the guy – what you can remember at least – and see if she recognises him." She frowned and motioned for him to sit back down, " _after_ you've eaten."

"I'm not hungry" Dean countered. She shot him a stern look, one eyebrow raised.

"Dean Winchester, I have never known you _not_ to be hungry. Stop tryin' to punish yourself for somethin' you couldn't control and eat your breakfast. Don't make me say it twice."

Suitably chastised, Dean pulled out one of the cartons and dug in, satisfying his grumbling stomach. Appeased, Jody sat back and sipped her coffee.

"So we need to go back over what we know. You think you were drugged, yes?"

Dean nodded around a mouthful. "Yeah, I felt off…woozy. I didn't think a lot of it – just that I was tired. It's not like any of us have been gettin' a lot of sleep lately."

"What did you eat last night?"

Dean pointed over his shoulder with one thumb, gesturing towards the discarded pizza box and empty beer bottles. Jody stood up and walked over. She flipped up the lid and found the box empty – except for one half chewed slice. She gave the beer bottles another look, her expression thoughtful. Moving to the fridge, she pulled out one of the other bottles and looked at it. Dean watched her, mystified. She touched the cap gently, frowning.

"This isn't on properly, see?" she remarked, handing the bottle to the hunter. Dean took it, studying it carefully.

"Son of a bitch."

It had clearly been capped; the looseness of the top a dead giveaway. Jody took it back, placing it on the table by the window. She grabbed a ziplock bag from her bag and put the pizza slice in it.

"Once we start gettin' together evidence, I'll take what needs analysin' to the local sheriff department. I know him – he won't mind."

"Jody, the last time I got you involved, someone died; I can't do that again" Dean murmured, his eyes downcast.

"You ain't gotta choice, Dean. Scott didn't die because of you. He died because of some son of a bitch who thought he was above everyone else. I'm involved in this whether you like it or not. You and Cas are not facin' this alone. Not this time. And we need all the help we can get" Jody replied fiercely, her jaw set resolutely. Inwardly, Dean was glad; Jody was a damned good sheriff and he needed her expertise – not just her resources – she would look at it from the analytical, human world perspective rather than the supernatural. They needed to consider both sides until they figured out who the mystery guy was.

Finishing his coffee, Dean stood.

"I won't be long."

"Walk the way you came back last night and try visualising it. See if anything was different – particularly the cars. Sam's a big guy – getting him out relatively unnoticed wouldn't have been easy" Jody suggested. Dean nodded and left.

The woman at the front desk leaned idly against the counter, flicking through a magazine, her head resting on one hand. She smiled and stood up straight when she saw Dean entering, giving him the same appreciative look she'd given him the night before. She may have been pushing sixty, but the things she thought of when she looked at him…they were definitely the daydreams of her younger days.

"Mornin' sweetheart" she greeted, brightly. Dean gave her a brief soft smile.

"Hey, so I need to find this guy," Dean began, leaning in on the counter. She shifted in, almost conspiratorially. "Y'know those kids from last night? This guy helped me out – he'd seen them hangin' around, but I didn't get the chance to thank him after I'd spoken to them. I wanted to know what room he was in so I could say thanks."

"Oh, sure thing, honey. What did he look like?"

"Inch or so shorter than me, dark hair, had a beard" Dean listed, trying to picture Sam's assailant as best he could but his memory was still hazy.

"Oh yeah! Mr Wemmick…weird name but what a lovely guy! And I just _adored_ his accent; you don't get it a lot 'round these parts. He was just so polite; I'm not surprised he helped you out. He's in…" she checked her computer screen, "room ten! Right next to you!"

Dean's heart stopped. The woman's smile faltered when he froze, before he righted himself, giving a small shake of his head.

"That's great. Thank you" he replied and walked out, stalking back towards his own room. Jody's advice popped back into his mind, slowing down his angry footsteps. He needed to concentrate. Looking around, Dean noted the cars in the lot – some he recognised from the day before, some were new. None of the new ones were important; Sam was gone. So which ones from last night were missing? Which had moved? Drawing on his memories, he compared the darkness last night to now. It wasn't easy – he hadn't been thinking clearly, what with the drugs and the nuisance teenagers (who he now suspected didn't exist at all) but still he tried. Looking at Baby, he stopped.

He hadn't been able to see her yesterday. Another car – an SUV – had been in the way. Dean focused, trying to draw up the details in his mind. It wasn't the biggest SUV around, but it was big enough to transport someone as tall as Sam with relative ease. It'd been black, non-descript…he huffed in frustration. It wasn't coming up clearly at all. Making a mental note to search up SUVs later, he walked back into his room.

"Bastard was stayin' next door" he growled as he entered.

"That's not the only thing" Jody replied, holding up a small black box. Dean took it, studying it closely. "I found it up on the cupboard. He was listening in – he knew when you'd gone, what you said…everything."

Son of a bitch! Dean's grip tightened on the black box as he fought to keep his rage under control. He grabbed his lock picks from his bag and went out, heading to the adjacent room. Bending down, he made quick work of the lock as Jody stepped up beside him. He barged in, knowing he would find it empty, but still feeling the bite of disappointment anyway.

The room, identical to his and Sam's, was immaculate. The bed was made, the surfaces all completely clear. They both searched but found nothing.

"I doubt he really touched anything. He must've set up here, watched you guys and left" Jody remarked, her tone heavy. "Right, we need to go and get your food analysed – it'll take a while so we might as well do that next. By the time we get back, Castiel should be here."

Dean nodded, holding the door open for her before following her out.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Thomas awoke, feeling refreshed. He'd gone to sleep in a foul mood – the worst for a long time – but he was fine now. He wasn't one to hold a grudge, at least, not for trivial things. As long as Sam learned his lesson, all would be well. It was close to four o'clock; he hadn't wanted to sleep all day and hoped it wouldn't keep him up later that night.

Dressing swiftly and walking downstairs, he sat down in front of the laptop, bringing the screen back to life again. His mind settled as he felt the familiar waves of a routine being established washing over him.

It was just like home.

He'd accepted, at the time, that Sam was going to be taken from them by Lucifer – it was Miss Toni's wish and he acknowledged that – but the thought had still left him feeling...lost. Sam was going to move on and realise his potential – he was going to fly free. Thomas had never been more proud…or more bereft.

He'd taken such pride in caring for Sam, helping him realise his capabilities through Miss Toni's sessions. Yes, he'd pitied Sam and even regretted some of the things that had happened to him – Thomas was not a violent man, after all – but he had trusted in the vision he was presented with. They had tried so hard to help Sam fulfil his destiny, putting so much effort into moulding him – especially Miss Toni. To honour her, Thomas was going to start over: help Sam find his new path. No Lucifer this time. They would carve a new destiny. Together.

The thought of having Sam back in their small, unofficial family brought such comfort to him; Sam was the little piece of Miss Toni that Thomas could hold onto. Caring for him brought a shred of normality back into his life. After all, routine was so important during times of grief.

Thomas sighed deeply; if only Miss Toni was there too. He missed her, more than he could even admit to himself. He knew Anna felt it too; she kept herself busy constantly (not that she had ever been an idle woman), covering her grief with her work. It was alright though: this was the beginning of a new era for all of them.

Double clicking on the icon for the video feed, Thomas brought the programme up, a sense of tranquillity passing through him as Sam appeared on the screen. He clicked on the unmute icon and leaned forwards, resting his chin on his clasped hands. Soft moans floated up through the speakers, sporadic and nonsensical. Thomas frowned, concentrating on Sam's form. The hunter was, of course, in the same position that Thomas had left him in, but it was his movements that the Englishman was interested in.

Working so closely with Sam for months had left Thomas attuned to his every movement, every vocalisation – regardless of whether he was restrained or not. Thomas had watched over him, seen him through so many trials. He could tell from the tone of Sam's voice – both in his words and his moans – what kind of mood he was in. Where it hurt, how much. He knew all the minute changes in Sam's expressions: the tightening around his eyes meant he was about to fly off the handle; the slight downward curve of his lips meant he was close to breaking point for the day. Just by the set of Sam's shoulders, Thomas knew how stubborn he was going to be. There were even days when he would advise Miss Toni on how…thorough she needed to be. Their relationship was so much more powerful, more special, than Thomas could explain to an outsider. No one knew Sam like he did.

Now he studied Sam's body, noting each twitch, each jerk of his limbs. To the untrained eye, Sam appeared to be awake, struggling once more. Thomas knew better.

Sam was dreaming.

The sporadic jerk of his head, from left to right and back again, accompanied by a tiny whimper, close to a sob, told the Englishman that he was upset – it wasn't a pleasant dream. His legs tensed, pulling against the chain while his fingers twitched. Rising from his seat, Thomas grabbed his keys and headed out towards the storm cellar.

oOo

 _Toni stood over him, a cattle prod dancing idly between her hands as she twirled it like a baton. Sam lay on the floor, twitching and convulsing, curled into a ball. He gazed up at her fearfully, unable to find the words to make her stop. He wanted it to end: he'd never wanted it more, but whenever he tried to say 'yes' the word choked him. His body was betraying him. Toni said nothing; she just continued to stare down at him, her expression cruel and amused. She prowled around him, her heels clicking across the floor rhythmically. Sam crawled forwards, dragging himself along the floor with his forearms, unsure of where he even thought he was going – anywhere away from her. The tiles were cold and slippery; when he looked down, he saw that they were red, an endless sea of red that stretched across the whole room. His blood. It had to be his._

 _He couldn't take this anymore; it was supposed to be over._

 _Her heels clicked closer and suddenly he was arching, screaming, when the cattle prod sank into his back._

Sam woke with a start, breathing heavily, vestiges of panic clinging onto him in the darkness of the room. When he inhaled, the soft scent of sandalwood mixed with a dry hint of patchouli seeped into his mind, instantly quelling his panic and letting the fear drain away. It was one of the comforting smells of home; not the place – the person.

Dean.

It wasn't fragrance Sam smelled often; usually Dean only wore it when he was out for the night, but it was one that brought back memories of pool hustles, extended arguments over who really won the last pranking war, laughter and good company. Nothing bad happened when the warm woody undertones drifted over Sam.

He welcomed the calm that it brought, finding comfort when a gentle hand brushed through his hair softly; it was a gesture Dean had used over the last few days whenever he woke from a nightmare. It took him back to when they were little and Dean would comfort him, saving him from the monsters under the bed that he'd believed in before he knew what their family business really was.

Sam tried to ease his eyes open but his eyelids were so heavy. As awareness slowly began to seep back in, he realised how thirsty he was; his mouth was so damned dry. The hand continued to stroke his hair as he tried to lift one arm, frowning when it didn't cooperate. His detox had finished so why would Dean…?

"How did you sleep, Sam?" Thomas asked, smiling down at Sam, his tone gentle, soothing. Sam jerked away from his hand and went completely still, his whole body tensing.

"Here, let's take that off" Thomas murmured, reaching underneath Sam's head and fiddling with the knot in the blindfold. He pulled it off carefully, Sam blinking blearily up at him several times when the light hurt his eyes. He let out a choked sob, despair pooling in the depths of his eyes when the memories of the last twenty-four hours flooded back in. Thomas gave him a sympathetic smile as he sat back in the chair he'd place by Sam's bed.

"You were having a nightmare, Sam; I thought Dean's cologne might bring you some comfort," Thomas explained, holding up the small glass bottle so that Sam could see it. "It would seem I was right. That would've been useful a couple of months ago, wouldn't it? At least we know now. It's a shame your brother has such…unpleasant tastes, although I can't say I'm really surprised." Sam grunted angrily, glaring up at him. Thomas sighed. "Now this morning's antics were…regrettable – I'm sure you'll agree. So, we're going to go through the boundaries again, just so that we're all on the same page." Sam shifted uneasily beneath his unwavering gaze, alarmed by the glint Thomas' eye.

"I want you to be happy, Sam. Together, we're going to build a whole new future."

oOo

 **Thomas giving anyone else the creeps yet?**

 **Please review and make my day!**


	10. Nobody's Praying for Me

**Thanks for all the positive feedback, especially about our favourite creep! I'm taking some artistic licensing with Enochian symbols in this one – hope no one minds!**

oOo

 _"I'm the water that'll drown you."_

 _\- Nobody's Praying for Me, Seether_

oOo

 _"I want you to be happy, Sam."_

 _"I don't want anything from you!"_

Sam stared at Thomas, eyes wide in disbelief, Lucifer's words ringing in Thomas' voice. He felt sick, the same as he had when Lucifer told him the same thing all those years ago. Why did the people that wanted to take everything from him always claim that they were doing it for his benefit?

Thomas was clearly insane – actually crazy. Sam had always assumed that, between Thomas and Toni, Thomas was the more reasonable one. Obviously, his behaviour, his devotion to Toni, had been anything but normal, but Sam hadn't realised how…obsessive the Englishman truly was. The thought horrified him in ways that he couldn't even begin to comprehend.

He whimpered softly; he couldn't stop himself. He didn't want to look weak, but he was nowhere even close to feeling normal and Thomas' proposal terrified him.

"Don't worry, Sam; I'm not going to give you up to Lucifer" Thomas insisted, misinterpreting Sam's obvious fear. "I would never do that – not now. He's partly to blame for what happened to Miss Toni; he doesn't deserve you. Not now. Not ever."

Was that supposed to be a comfort? Sam shifted uneasily, wishing, not for the first time in the last five minutes, that he was anywhere else. At least with Lucifer, Sam knew what his game was. With Thomas, he had no idea.

"The problem we do have, however, is your behaviour at the moment. How do you explain that?" Thomas continued, snapping Sam's attention back to him. "When you were taken from me – only just over a week ago, I might add – we were obviously having a few problems. I know how unsettling everything was in those last few days, particularly when we had to move around. That wasn't ideal, I'll admit. So I'll start off by saying that I don't want you to worry about that now, Sam; you're not going to be shifted around again. We're going to stay here, get our routines established." Sam slid his gaze away, staring up at the ceiling, trying to fight the panic that rose up inside him. Thomas just carried on. "But that doesn't excuse your lapse now. I already know exactly what the problem has been, what has made the change: your brother."

Sam's eyes flashed back to lock onto Thomas', a glare creasing his forehead. His hands balled into fists.

"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about," Thomas remarked, pointing at Sam's reaction. "It would appear you've reverted back to the petulant thug I met four months ago and I will make this very clear now: I shan't stand for it. Dean is clearly an awful influence on you and even a small amount of time with him has brought all your bad habits back.

"So I expect you to start behaving appropriately again. You're going to get rid of the whole silly notion of escaping or you will force me to go and pay your brother a visit. We're going to have to go right back to the basics which is most galling. You are going to have to earn your privileges." Sam swallowed the snarl that started to build in his throat. Thomas' insistence on treating him like a child was what was galling – not his 'behaviour'! How else did the Englishman expect him to react to being held against his will? Thomas looked at him thoughtfully. "Now, you have listened…reasonably well, I suppose, so, as a show of good will, how about we take that gag off?"

The relief that flooded through the hunter was like a tidal wave and he hated it; he didn't want to feel indebted to Thomas in any way. He tried to squash the feeling, but couldn't and, as he lifted his head, allowing Thomas access to the knot in the cloth, he felt it surge. The cloth slid from around his mouth and Thomas gently pulled the second one from inside his mouth. Sam groaned, licking parched lips with a dry tongue and closed his mouth properly for the first time in hours. He fixed his glare back on Thomas who had gone to the shelf across the room returning with a water bottle as Sam found his voice, rough as it was.

"If you do anything to Dean, I swear –"

"Ah!" Thomas interrupted him, holding a finger up and frowning down at Sam disapprovingly. "Don't you dare try and threaten me, Sam. That gag can go straight back on and stay there if that's the case. That's your first boundary; you will stay civil or you won't talk at all. Am I clear? Or do I need to put it back on?"

Sam shut his mouth, jaw muscles visibly clenching and unclenching. He said nothing, staring up at the ceiling. Satisfied, Thomas flipped up the sports cap on the water bottle.

"Here" he offered, tilting it towards Sam's mouth. Sam scowled up at him.

"If you let me go, I can do it myself" he grumbled. Thomas frowned and straightened up, taking the water with him. Sam panicked. "No! Wait…please."

Thomas waited, the seconds dragging.

"That's better, Sam. Manners don't cost anything," he remarked, repeating his same old mantra as he bent down again and offered the water again. Sam leaned up and drank deeply, satiating the thirst that had been driving him mad for hours, even when he'd been asleep. Up until the last nightmare, all the others had been water based. Now he could feel the cool liquid dribbling down his throat, down his oesophagus and pooling in his stomach. It was yet another relief that he didn't want to feel.

"With regards to your comment, you must realise that it is far too soon for me to let you have that much freedom; I think your little stunt this morning proved that. Obviously, I'm not an unreasonable man though. How quickly you want to gain that freedom will be up to you. The more you do as you're told, the sooner it will be. Everything is your choice, Sam. It really is that simple."

Bullshit echoed through Sam's mind but he didn't dare say it. Thomas was right about one thing; Sam hadn't forgotten what he was like. Profanity was one thing that bothered the self-confessed 'gentleman'. Thomas pulled away once Sam had finished drinking, placing the empty bottle in a small bin in the corner.

"So why am I here?" Sam asked, watching the Englishman warily as he went to a small metal cabinet and pulled out a white bundle of clothes.

"I told you: we're going to start afresh."

"That's a load of horse cra-" Thomas shot him a warning look. Sam readjusted his words choice quickly. "I don't believe you."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way."

"You can't honestly think I'm going to _willing_ go anywhere with you, do you? Thomas, you helped Toni torture me for _months_. You force-fed me demon blood before trying to palm me off to Lucifer. Then, you hurt my brother and abduct me, fully admitting that the only way you can keep me here is to chain me up. You've got to realise how crazy that sounds right?" Sam implored him, watching as he picked up a pair of scissors from the shelf across the room. Thomas stood over him, gazing down at him, a mixture of regret and – what was that? – concern written on his features.

"What if I told you I was protecting you?" Thomas responded as he picked up the front of Sam's shirt. The hunter shifted and looked down at his hands.

"What're you doing?" he asked, watching as Thomas started to cut through his shirt. Thomas glanced up at him.

"You can't stay in the same clothes; it's hardly practical and, before you say it, no: I don't trust you enough to let you dress yourself."

The humiliation burned hot in Sam, bringing a warm flush to his skin. Thomas didn't acknowledge it; he just continued cutting until the whole of Sam's shirt was in ruins.

"What the hell do you mean you're 'protecting' me? Protecting me from what?" Sam growled, struggling to keep his tone level but he couldn't help the bite in his words. Thomas pulled the destroyed shirt out from under him, leaving his torso bare. He shivered and not from the cold.

"I'm going to release you one wrist at a time to get this on. Remember the rules, Sam and what your consequences will be if you don't do as you're told. Look," Thomas pointed at the leather cuffs around Sam's wrists. The hunter followed his finger. "They're padlocked on. If you fight, the only thing you'll achieve is testing my patience. Lift up your head." Sam seethed inwardly, hating it but he knew the Man of Letters was right; without a key or a lock pick, he was stuck. He lifted his head, letting Thomas slide the shirt over and around his neck. Thomas produced a set of keys from his pocket, unlocking the first padlock on his right wrist. He moved the key, and the lock, onto the chair, far out of Sam's reach before unbuckling the strap. Sam pulled his arm down and stretched it out, catching Thomas' frown.

"My shoulders ache" he complained, rotating it slowly. Thomas nodded and let him have the movement as he made no move to throw a punch. He bundled up the shirt sleeve and held it aloft so that Sam could stick his arm through. Begrudgingly, Sam held his arm back up again so that Thomas could reattach the cuff, locking it back in place.

"Protect me from what?" Sam asked again as Thomas repeated the same movements with his other arm. When the shirt was on, he pulled it down, covering Sam's torso.

"That I can't tell you. You're not ready yet" Thomas replied calmly, moving to the end of the bed.

"You can't claim something like that and then keep me in the dark about it!" Sam barked.

"Sam…" Thomas' voice was laced with warning, his expression darkening.

"No! I deserve to know! What the hell could be worse than you, you twisted son of a bitch?" Sam spat, glaring at the older man. Thomas went absolutely still.

The air froze around them.

Silently, Thomas stepped back up towards the top end of the bed, stooping to grab something from the chair; Sam couldn't see what. He could feel the anger rolling off Thomas as the older man turned on him, but his expression not livid as Sam had expected, instead it was a mask of frustrated disappointed.

"That sounded an awful lot like ingratitude to me, Sam. Such a shame; we were making such progress" Thomas sighed, stepping closed. Sam shifted, catching a glimpse of Thomas' clutched hand.

"Wait! No!" he shouted as Thomas lunged, shoving the discarded cloth from earlier back into Sam's mouth before he had the chance to twist away. Sam howled, bucking and thrashing his head but Thomas' hand clamped down, restricting his movements as he pulled a bandana from his back pocket. Slipping the centre of it between the fingers of the hand he was holding down the hunter with, he held one end with his free hand as he slid the other hand around the side of Sam's face so that the cloth instantly replaced his hand and let him twist Sam's head to the side. He yanked it tightly and tied it off, ignoring Sam's moans of protest at its severity. He straightened up and crossed his arms, watching as Sam shook his head, trying to loosen the tight material.

"I gave you more warnings than you deserved. Your language was hardly civil. As I said before; everything that happens to you is your choice," Thomas explained, again disregarding Sam's incoherent attempts to speak. He would have the opportunity to apologise later. "Let's continue shall we?"

Thomas moved away again, heading back to the shelf once more. Sam watched him nervously, regretting his temper and yet unable to take it back. The gag was uncomfortably tight after the small reprieve he'd had. Yet the treatment simply stoked the defiance in him. He wasn't weak! No – he was afraid, he was exhausted and he didn't know how he was going to get out of all of this, but he did know one truth in that moment: he'd be damned if he let Thomas get his 'new future'.

Sam watched as he approached the foot of the bed again, two pairs of metal shackles in his hands. Wordlessly, he bent over and snapped each pair around Sam's ankles, below the strap that held his legs together. He attached the other ends to the rail at the foot of the bed and stooped to undo the padlock on the original chain. As soon as he felt the chain loosen, Sam jerked, yanking on his legs. The new shackles bit into his ankles. He huffed, glaring at the top of Thomas' head as he set about removing both leather straps from around Sam's legs. The pressure fell away from around his knees. He grunted angrily, struggling when Thomas pulled his boots off but unable to stop him. The Englishman placed them on the floor.

The pair locked eyes again as Thomas stared at him thoughtfully. He walked to Sam's middle and reached down, unbuckling the hunter's belt. Sam bucked, thrashing wildly, muffled shouts coming out as whispers. Thomas paused, his hands still on Sam's belt. He looked at the hunter sharply.

"If you don't desist, Sam, I swear to God I will tie you down so that you can't move" he hissed, blue eyes flashing. Loathing himself as he did it, Sam stopped, willing himself to settle. Thomas wasn't one to make an idle threat – not in the mood he was now in anyway. Sam didn't want to see him get truly imaginative; the car had been bad enough.

Staring up at the ceiling, shame filled him as he felt his jeans being pulled down. "Sam." He looked down. "If you even dare try and kick me, I will make good on that promise, do you understand?" Thomas warned. Sam gave the smallest nod he could get away with and went back to staring at the ceiling, pretending that none of this was happening. The shackle around his right ankle disappeared and he kept his leg still as his jeans were pulled off and a soft cotton material took its place. Despair tucked at him as the shackle was reapplied but moved, dragging his foot to the side. The same process happened with his left leg until his jeans, the last vestige of his own identity was taken, replaced by the sterile white pyjamas they had kept him in for months. The material was soft and warm but Sam hated it against his skin.

"There. Much better than that hideous material. Honestly, Sam, I don't know how you wear it" Thomas remarked, bundling up the offending jeans. Sam just continued to stare up, unwilling to give the older man the satisfaction of a reaction.

The door squealed open, both men looking up as sunlight poured in and down, a long shadow elongating into the room. He didn't know why, but hope surged through Sam even though he knew it would be no one who would help him. When he saw Anna's rigid frame descend the stairs, he let his head drop back against the pillow, turning his face towards the wall.

"This just arrived, Thomas. I thought you'd want it as soon as possible" Anna explained, handing him a small brown packet. He took it from her with a warm smile, her presence dissipating the anger than Sam's unruliness had caused.

"Thank you. This will suffice until we have a more permanent solution. I won't be long; Sam and I are nearly finished up for the day" he assured her. She gave a brief nod and walked out without batting an eyelid in Sam's direction. Thomas obviously had everything under control. She left without another word.

Thomas turned back to Sam again and sighed. He hadn't wanted it to be this way; he'd hoped Sam would have been more compliant. There was nothing worse than leaving with a bad feeling in the air. Sitting back down on the chair, he studied Sam carefully. Noted the tension that ran up his arms, balling into his fists, the way his throat worked as though he was struggling to contain his emotions. It was an emotional time for both of them. Thomas wished Sam would see that.

"Sam, I need you to understand that all of this is for your benefit. You think I'm being cruel and unkind. That's not my intention; I don't want to be. I want to trust you, but trust is earned where I come from. The more you show me that I can, the more things I can give you. Things like access to the facilities up at the house – the shower and the like. I'm sure you'd like that. But that's something we're going to have to negotiate between us. I really am looking out for you – protecting you, putting your wellbeing first. One day, you'll thank me for this – I'm sure of it."

Sam continued to stare at the wall, but the slight shift in the tightening of his fingers told Thomas that he was listening. Sighing once again, Thomas stood up and picked up the discarded black cloth. Sam jumped, moaning softly into his gag when Thomas slipped the blindfold on him once again.

"I know, Sam, I know. But it's only for when I'm gone. You'll be alright" Thomas soothed, stroking Sam's hair fondly. Opening the small packet Anna had given him, he let a small necklace on a silver chain slide out into his palm. The pendant was round and flat, an intricate Enochian symbol ornately designed. It had been hard to come by, but it would be worth it. It was the only way he could block Sam's pet angel. Once he had it on, it blocked his prayers, much like the carvings on his ribs prevented angels from being able to find him. Thomas had no idea if Sam had already contacted the angel, but he couldn't risk any further communication.

Unhooking the clasp, he slipped it around Sam's neck, the younger man jumping in surprise at the contact. Securing it, Thomas let the pendant sit against Sam's chest, just below his throat. Sam shifted; he knew Thomas had done something but the necklace was light enough that he couldn't really feel it.

"I'll be back later; try to rest. Think about what I've said and what choices you want to make in the future," Thomas instructed as he sprayed another round of Dean's cologne onto the bed near Sam's head. Sam moaned as the scent drifted up to him. It was a strange noise – caught somewhere between despair and comfort. Thomas turned and walked towards the door. He picked up Sam's discarded clothes; he would burn them later. Climbing the steps, he nearly missed the tiny sob that came up from the cellar. Thomas shook his head, almost sadly.

It was as Anna had pointed out to him earlier; he needed to be cruel to be kind.

Anna was just outside the storm cellar, pulling at a few stray weeds that were growing haphazardly near the door. She ripped them up, revealing delicate white ends covered in dusty soil. Balling them up in her fist, she squashed them between deft fingers.

"He was rude then" she remarked, stating it as though it was a given fact that the hunter would be; he couldn't be anything else. They walked back towards the farmhouse side by side, the light slowly dimming, casting a gleam of gold across the grey slats.

"He'll learn; he did before. It's a lot better than starting completely from scratch again."

"It might as well be. If his brother is even half the influence you think he is, it's going to take a lot of work."

"True. But it shan't be long before he comes to depend on us. I intend to keep the blindfold and gag on him, regardless of his behaviour, to begin with and only remove them when I'm there. That way he will begin to associate my presence with freedom. He was broken just before the events in the barn; he won't have recovered properly from that. His journal said so. If I can wear him down enough with those tactics to begin with, I can start to develop the finer details that will move our plans forward" Thomas explained, holding the door open for Anna as they got back to the house. The warm aroma of stew wafted into his nostrils, making his stomach growl. "Anna, that smells absolutely wonderful."

Anna smiled, a genuine soft smile. "It won't be long until it's ready."

"Have I got time to sketch that symbol? If I'm going to get the metalwork made, I need to give them an accurate representation."

"I should think so. I'll call you when it is" Anna offered. Thomas patted her arm warmly before heading back into the dining room. Flicking the dulled screen back to life, he flipped open a notepad and got to work, Sam's moans of discomfort drifting through the speakers as Thomas hummed gently to himself.

oOo

 **Mason City, Iowa**

Castiel had arrived by lunch time, stalking into the motel room to find Dean and Jody sat collating the bits of information they already had. They had already dropped off the samples at the local sheriff's office, Jody's contact proving to be more than obliging and even offering to put it through as a rush job. He promised to get them preliminary results by that evening.

Now it was pushing towards late afternoon and Dean was sat scrolling through images of medium sized SUVs on Google. He'd been unable to visualise the car properly from his memory and hoped that one of the images would jog it. Jody was busy researching the audio speaker she'd found. Cas lay on the bed, his eyes closed, expression serious. Dean kept glancing up at him, restlessly waiting. The angel wasn't asleep; he was attempting to contact Sam. They had no idea if Sam would be asleep – it wasn't anywhere near night time – but it was worth a shot. The hunter drew his eyes back to the laptop, flicking through the images until, suddenly, his fingers paused. He clicked on the image and enlarged it.

"Got it!" he exclaimed triumphantly. Jody raised her eyebrows questioningly. "BMW X5. That's what I saw next to the Impala last night. It had to have been his car."

Jody nodded and rose. "I'll go see what the front desk got – even a number plate would be a start." They'd already agreed there was no point in Dean going; there were only so many 'favours' he could ask of the motel owner before she started getting suspicious. Jody left, shutting the door quietly behind her. Castiel blinked his eyes open, refocusing on the tiled ceiling.

"Anythin'?" Dean blurted out, unable to stop himself. Cas sat up and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Dean; I can't reach him. I presume he's awake which we did expect since it's still the afternoon. I'll try again later tonight" Cas reassured him, pity filling him at Dean's crestfallen expression. "It doesn't mean anything. I just can't reach him if he's conscious, that's all."

"But he seriously hasn't tried to contact you at all?" Dean asked desperately, his brow crinkling into a frown. Cas sighed and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but no. You can't read too much into that either, Dean. There could be a whole host of reasons that we don't know about. One thing we do know: Sam won't have made it easy for them, I'm sure."

"Yeah I know" Dean mumbled, the knot in his stomach plummeting. That was part of what terrified him; Sam may not have been himself, but his stubborn nature had got him into a whole host of problems in the past. Whoever had him wouldn't know that he wasn't himself – not that they would make any kind of allowances anyway. They needed to find out who Sam's abductor was – and now. Obviously, there was no way it could be Toni; she was dead – confirmed by Jonathan Markham himself. Lucifer was above such base methods, although if he was as weak as they thought he might be, Dean wouldn't put it past him. The thought made him nauseous.

Sam would say no. He always would but the thought of him going through even half of what Dean imagined he'd gone through with Toni again sent wave after wave of unadulterated panic through the older Winchester. They hadn't even really talked about Sam's experience – only small bits and pieces – and that was enough to send Dean's imagination into overdrive.

"Dean." Cas' voice broke through his reverie. He looked up into the concerned blue eyes that stared down at him. "Imagining the worst-case scenario isn't going to help; you're only making yourself feel worse and you don't need that."

"Don't I?" Dean asked bitterly. "It's my fault he got taken in the first place. If I hadn't left him –"

"You left a capable hunter in a locked motel room for barely ten minutes, Dean. There is no way you could have foreseen this coming. How many times have you and Sam been in more obvious danger? I know you need to protect Sam – more so in the last week than ever – but that doesn't mean you couldn't leave him. You thought he was safe; we all did. There is no one to blame but whoever it was that did this and we've already established that this was well planned and executed. Even if you hadn't gone, I think the same thing would have happened. Stop concentrating on what you think you should have done and focus on what we need to do."

Castiel's words hit like a hammer, but Dean knew he was right. He couldn't stop himself from feeling guilty – that was never going to happen – but he did need to stay focused. The more he panicked, the less astute he was.

The door breezed open and Jody came back in, her face set in a frustrated scowl.

"That woman is just about the biggest gossip I have ever met. She takes Donna's crown, that's for sure" she grumbled, sitting back at the table. Dean looked at her expectantly, even though he knew the answer. She shook her head. "CCTV has been broken since yesterday mornin'."

"Convenient" Dean growled.

"That's what I thought. I'm guessin' he parked up, broke it and then booked in. She's got nothin'. But," Jody held up a hand when Dean made to interrupt, "he can't do that with every camera in town; I got a call from Jack – results came in. Both the pizza and beer were laced with a slow acting sedative that wouldn't have been enough to knock you out, but was enough to make you wobbly. I've asked if we can come look at traffic cameras so we're free to go do that. We need to know how your food got tampered with too."

"We should interrogate the pizza man" Castiel offered. Dean pulled a face.

"It sounds so wrong when you say it."

"He's not the same pizza man. I know that. I am aware that not all pizza men act in the same way" Cas grumbled, frowning. Dean gave him a half smile.

"Okay. Jody, you and Cas go to the sheriff's and start lookin' for a black BMW X5. I doubt it's a common make round here and even finding out what direction it went in would be a start. I'll go talk to the pizza guy."

oOo

Dean stood by the counter inside Godfather's Pizza, leaning against the counter as he waited. The place was packed with noisy families and the usual clanking and ringing of cutlery and glasses from the patrons and the shouts and bustle from the kitchen.

A lanky teenager rushed out of the door behind the counter, adjusting his hat as he looked nervously at Dean with large brown eyes. His elongated limbs and lack of grace brought memories of Sam during his first real growth spurt flooding back for Dean. It had felt like one minute Sam was the same little kid who had no chance of ever actually growing, the next he was the giant that Dean had to look up to, which, to this day, still felt weird. It'd taken Sam a long time to fill out and look like he fitted in his own body – the boy in front of him still had a few years before that happened. One thing was for sure: he wasn't the delivery guy Dean had seen the night before, confirming his suspicions before he even needed to ask anything.

"Am I in trouble?" he blurted out, eyes fearful. Dean gave him a small smile and shook his head.

"No, you're not. I just need to ask you a few questions about a delivery you made last night."

The boy visibly relaxed. "Oh. Well I made loads but I'll try my best to answer."

"You went to the Commandeer Inn, right? Room 11?" Dean asked. The boy's face lit up and he nodded eagerly.

"Yeah! Met the guy outside – said he was on his way back into the room. Gave me a twenty and took his order there and then. Easiest twenty bucks I've ever made."

"Can you tell me what he looked like?"

"He was kinda average – Dark hair, beard, maybe an inch or so shorter than you? Real polite though" the boy replied. Dean nodded, mentally comparing the description to the man he'd seen last night. It was him. Inwardly he cursed as he thanked the boy and walked out, pulling out his phone, just as it started to ring. Jody's number popped up on the screen.

"Hey," Dean greeted as he walked back towards the Impala. "So our mystery guy did get hold of our dinner – son of a bitch pretended he was on his way back to our room. Same description as the motel owner's and it fits with what I saw. Doesn't really help us find Sam, though."

"Every detail helps, Dean; even the stuff that doesn't seem important," Jody replied, her voice crackling over the line. Dean slid into the car, pulling the door shut with its familiar squeal. "We think we might've found that car on the cameras. Get your ass here now so we can confirm it."

Yes. This was the break they needed. Hope flared.

"I'll be there in ten."

oOo

 **Please review!**


	11. Choices

**Okay so Thomas is written to be intentionally cruel psychologically to Sam; he was never involved in the physical torture that Toni did during Broken other than to 'set' Sam up for it. Thomas isn't a traditionally violent character and he knows that the best way to get to Sam is through mind games. Therefore, I'm aware that some of the stuff I'm having him do to Sam seems over the top but it is designed to wear our poor boy down mentally. Believe me, writing some of this stuff is hard (this chapter does contain one of the hardest scenes I've ever written: you have been warned).**

 **But I hope you're all enjoying it!**

oOo

 _"I hope you're doing fine out there without me_

 _'cause I'm not doing so good without you."_

 _\- Here By Me, 3 Doors Down_

oOo

 **Mason City, Iowa**

Dusk was falling over the long low building of the sheriff's department, soaking it in a thinning greyish light as the sun sunk lower. There were few officers inside, most having gone home or sent out on duty, leaving a gentle hush over the main bullpen.

Dean, Jody and Castiel were holed up in a small side office, crammed onto three swivel chairs in front of a wall of monitors. Each screen displayed a different road, live traffic breezing along, flashing past the cameras as people went about their routines. Sometimes Dean wondered if people truly realised how monitored they actually were. And yet, somehow, finding one person, one car, was like looking for a damned needle in a haystack.

"Okay so this is the road the motel is on," Jody explained, pulling up the footage she'd uncovered before calling Dean. "This was around 10.47 – just after you got attacked. Is that the car you saw?" A black BMW X5 pulled out onto the road, driving perfectly normally as it swung out of the car park.

"Yeah. Can you zoom in on the driver's window?" he asked, peering at the screen. Jody clicked a few buttons and highlighted the side of the car, bringing it up. It was grainy and distorted, the window tinted with the driver's face turned away. Dean huffed. He couldn't confirm or deny if it was the guy he'd seen. The windows at the back were black so it was impossible to see if Sam was in the car or not. Jody let the footage continue. The three of them watched as the car rolled out of the parking lot and drove away from the camera.

"At least we have the licence plate" Dean remarked, noting the number on the back of the car.

"I already ran it; plates are registered to a 2011 Buick Lucerne. He knew what he was doing" Jody replied, her tone frustrated.

"Great" Dean groaned, running a hand over his face.

"We were able to track its journey through the town though" Cas pointed out. Jody nodded and increased the speed of the footage. Luckily, there were few cars pottering around at that time of night so following the BMW's progress had been relatively easy. They stalked its progress through the streets until it hit the junction off of the US-18 and merged onto the I-35 south.

"How far could you track it down the I-35?" Dean asked.

"Not far. The bastard got off a few junctions down onto roads that don't have cameras. My guess? If he _did_ get back on, he would've swapped the plates. I can't track that – there's no guarantee that any of the black BMWs goin' down the I-35 are the right one. It's too common."

"It's a start. We know their direction at least" Dean murmured, fighting the disappointment that mingled with his frustration. They were piecing the information together but it just wasn't fast enough. They needed something solid; something that would lead them definitively in the right direction. Something they could track Sam with.

Realisation jolted through him.

"Son of a bitch" he exclaimed, yanking out his phone. Cas and Jody looked at him curiously. He glanced up. "I put Sam's GPS on when he got back. We should be able to follow that." The hunter could have kicked himself; seems the taser fried more brain cells than he'd thought. Pulling up the locator on his own phone, Dean frowned. NO SIGNAL flashed up at him.

"If his phone is off – which it most likely is – you can't pinpoint its GPS" Cas remarked, peering at the screen.

"Unless we try and get the phone company to give us its last known position" Jody suggested. Dean gave her a brief half smile.

"Jody, I ever tell you you're a genius?"

She winked at him as he searched for the number of their service provider. Holding the phone up to his ear, Dean tried desperately to subdue the hope that was bubbling in his chest. He couldn't keep pinning his hope on things that didn't amount to anything. The line clicked on and a forced jovial voice greeted him.

"Hi, my brother has lost his phone and the battery's gone dead. I was hopin' you could tell me the last place you got the GPS signal from." Dean explained, keeping his tone persuasive and smooth. "Yeah, sure – 785-389-1106. Thanks." Dean mimed a pen at Jody, who promptly grabbed him a notepad. He scribbled down the coordinates as the woman reeled them off. "Thanks" he murmured as he hung up and brought up the map app on his phone. Inputting the coordinates, he waited impatiently for it to load. His eyes lit up and he turned the screen to show Jody, smiling triumphantly. She peered at the screen.

"That looks like a rest stop" she remarked.

"On the I-35 south, just outside of Elkhart – a couple of hours away," Dean confirmed, grabbing his jacket. "We need to go. Now."

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

"Good morning, Sam. Time to start a new day." Thomas' voice washed over Sam as the blindfold was lifted from his eyes. Sam blinked several times, adjusting to the weak light after hours of total darkness. He was surprised that he'd managed to sleep at all but, between the black silence and emotional trauma, his body had given out and he'd fallen into the first dreamless sleep for over a week. It left the hunter feeling energised, ready.

Thomas could go to hell before Sam gave into his bullshit.

So when the blindfold lifted, he stared up at Thomas levelly, filled with a confidence that he couldn't really explain – or justify. He had no plan of how he could escape and he didn't know what to expect from Thomas, but he would not give in. He would fight.

He would fight until Dean found him.

Oh dear. Thomas recognised that look. He resisted the urge to sigh; he hadn't wanted a fight on his hands this morning. He would give Sam the benefit of the doubt though – perhaps he was wrong. Although, when it came to Sam, Thomas rarely was.

Wordlessly he set about discreetly relieving Sam's needs – an act that Sam had had to suffer through on numerous occasions in England, particularly when he'd been stuck in the bed after his failed escape attempt. It didn't make it any less humiliating and it simply made him loathe Thomas more.

Once finished, Thomas reached up and undid Sam's gag, putting both parts on the small table beside the bed. He watched Sam flex his jaw but the hunter said nothing. No apology, no thank you: nothing. Thomas' disapproval rose.

"Right then. Breakfast. You must be hungry; I'm sorry you didn't get anything yesterday but I had assumed you were probably too upset to eat" Thomas remarked, keeping his tone cheerful despite the wariness that crept through him. Sam turned hard grey eyes to the bowl of porridge that Thomas had uncovered. His gaze moved up to meet Thomas'.

"I don't want _anything_ from you" he snarled, eyes hard as steel. The cuffs clanked against the metal frame of the bed as he shifted position.

Thomas' eyebrow rose into a look of disapproval.

"Refusing to eat is not one of your available options, Sam. Think carefully about what you're doing."

"Go to hell" Sam growled, turning his face away.

Thomas sighed as he walked over to the shelf opposite; it was lucky that he was at least moderately prepared for this scenario. "Why must you insist on this pointless defiance? It's not like it gets you anywhere."

"Because anything is better than giving you what you want."

"Oh, Sam," Thomas smiled as he walked over, standing at the head of the bed, arms clasped behind his back. "I doubt that." His hands whipped around, using Sam's coming retort as his opportunity to shove the spout of a plastic funnel between his teeth, pressing his tongue down. Sam bucked, wrenching his head to the side but Thomas kept a firm grip on the funnel and his chin, holding it in place, forcing his teeth to clamp around it. "I wish you weren't making me do this, Sam. But you're not going to learn until you experience the consequences of your defiance."

Sam's eyes widened and he fought desperately as Thomas picked up the bowl of porridge and slowly began tipping it into the wide end of the funnel. The lukewarm substance slid into his mouth and went straight to the back of his throat. He coughed and gagged, writhing but he couldn't shift Thomas' hand. His throat swallowed involuntarily, choking down the revolting lumpy mixture. His eyes watered as it just kept coming.

Thomas put the bowl to one side when it was empty, holding the funnel for a few moments longer until Sam finished choking it down.

"Now, when I tell you you're going to do something, maybe you will" Thomas chided softly as he pulled the funnel from Sam's mouth. Sam wrenched his head away instantly, coughing violently. He barely registered the loud ripping sound that was followed by a snicking noise. He looked up and saw Thomas lean down, a strip of silver in between his hands.

"No, stop!" Sam moaned as the duct tape was pressed firmly over his mouth, Thomas smoothing it down with his thumbs. Grabbing the blindfold, he once again covered Sam's eyes before picking up the breakfast things and leaving.

Sam heard him go, frustration filling him. He was getting sick of being gagged all the time. He knew exactly what Thomas was doing; it was simple psychology – making him associate being able to see and talk with his presence, thus making him dependent on the Man of Letters. At least it was only tape this time rather than the damned cloth. Tape he could deal with. Working his jaw, he slowly pulled at it, getting the adhesive damp, loosening it slowly.

It took a while, but Sam finally felt it come loose. Turning his head to the side, he scraped it against his upraised arm, pulling the whole thing off. He sighed in relief, breathing easy for the first time in what felt like days. He licked his dry lips, wishing Thomas had given him water. No – he wished he had water. He didn't want anything from Thomas. He couldn't let those thoughts start slipping in; if he did, he would crack.

"You're not okay, Sam. They're only trying to help."

Sam froze, heart pounding. Dean's voice rang clear, almost like he was right there.

"Dean?" he called softly, apprehensively. No answer. He stopped breathing, listening hard.

"I'm no good for you, Sam. You know that."

Dean's voice was clear despite how quiet it was. Sam shifted uncomfortably; it didn't sound like a recording; plus where would Thomas have got it from? What the hell?

oOo

Anna watched as Thomas clicked a few icons on the computer, his clever fingers making several adjustments to the sound bars that were flicking themselves up and down the screen.

"Is this what you were working on last night?" she asked, peering closely at the laptop.

"It is. I've taken the recordings I made from the motel room and cut Dean's sentences up. I can make him say whatever I want him to. I cleaned it up, got rid of the background noise and now I'm projecting it into the cellar."

"So Sam thinks he can hear his brother."

"Exactly. Couple it with the fact that he admitted he can't tell what's real and what isn't, it should slowly begin to unsettle him, make him doubt himself."

"Honestly, Thomas, you impress me more and more each day" Anna praised as she watched the small window, her eyes lighting up maliciously as she drank in Sam's agitation.

"I hadn't wanted to start this quite so soon, but he's not giving me much choice" Thomas sighed as he selected another clip.

"It would seem that tape isn't very effective on him."

"So it seems."

oOo

"I can't trust you."

"Stop it" Sam seethed, jerking on his wrists, his arms tense, hands balled into fists. Alone in the darkness, it was too much. Dean wasn't there. He wasn't saying it. Yet…how could Sam be sure?

It wasn't Dean! His brother protected him; he didn't join forces with crazy Brits.

He needed to see. He needed to know if he was alone.

Sam wriggled, but couldn't lift himself higher up the bed than he already was – his legs were straight and held firm by the metal shackles. He shuffled over to his right, craning his neck up and trying to turn his fingers down. It was awkward and painful – his wrists were already bruised from trying to do this the night before but now he _needed_ to get the damned blindfold off.

"C'mon" he grumbled, stretching himself further. His fingers brushed the soft cloth and a few strands of hair that were falling down the side of his face. The leather cuff dug into his wrist as he pulled hard, the metal frame groaning under the pressure. He snagged a finger into the edge of the bandana and pulled, ripping the whole thing off.

Relief filled him as he blinked, surprised to find the lights on. Typical that Thomas would blind him but not keep the whole room dark; that would be too easy. Anger flared in him at Thomas' choices. How he wished he could wrap his hands around Thomas' throat! Sam looked around, absorbing the cellar properly for the first time. He didn't feel safe studying it with Thomas around.

It was a small room, around eight feet by twelve – a typical size for a storm cellar. The walls were whitewashed concrete with no decoration. The stairs at the end lead up to what he assumed was a slanted door. It was a practical room and nothing more – typical of any storm cellar in the country. It didn't help him to discover where he was; tornadoes were a risk in all the states, although they were predominantly found in the south.

Next to the doorway, high up in the corner, Sam saw a small black box that was nearly concealed in the shadows. Its surface reflected the light when Sam squinted at it. Son of a bitch.

He was being watched.

Thomas knew what he was doing, leaving Sam unable to know when he was be watched and when he wasn't. That wasn't going to help him escape. He suspected it wouldn't be long before Thomas appeared; he wasn't going to like that Sam had taken back some of his control.

On the adjacent wall, there was a long shelf that ran halfway along the wall but it was too high for Sam to see what was on it. He didn't really want to know; Thomas seemed to stash all of his…accessories up there.

The thought made Sam nauseous.

The only other furnishings were the small wooden chair that Thomas sat on beside him, the cabinet next to the shelf containing clothes and the small table that was near the head of his bed. He couldn't see anything that would emit a sound. Since getting the blindfold off, the voice had stopped.

Craning his neck, he looked up at his wrists, turning them gently. The cuffs were new and well made, the padlocks small but secure. He flopped his head back on the pillow, sighing heavily. He wasn't going to get out of them without help.

Something tickled against his neck. Looking down, he caught a glimpse of something silver on his chest. It was a small necklace, the pendant no bigger than a nickel. His eyebrows knitted together as he studied its design. It looked Enochian – curved edges wound together into an intricate pattern within the confines of the outer circle. It wasn't a sigil Sam recognised. Why would Thomas put it on him? It wasn't for Sam's benefit that was for certain. The sooner he could get it off, the better.

Unsurprised, Sam heard the door rattle open, sunlight pouring in briefly before the door was shut and footsteps rained down. Thomas appeared, a look of exasperation on his face. Sam just glared up at him.

"Get off on watching, do you?" Sam snarled, giving the camera a pointed look. Thomas studied him carefully.

"It serves the same purpose as the one in your accommodation in London; it's there to protect you."

"Funny. You keep going on about all this 'protection' and yet somehow I don't exactly feel the benefit," Sam retorted sarcastically. He nodded down to the necklace. "That supposed to protect me too?"

"You're going to keep being a nuisance all day, aren't you?" Thomas remarked, ignoring Sam's questions. Unruly wards don't get answers.

"If wanting to get the hell away from here counts as that, then yeah. I'm not gonna give into you, Thomas. You can lock me down, shove things down my throat and play recordings of my brother all you like, but it won't change that."

Thomas looked down at him sharply, his expression one of seemingly genuine surprise.

"Recordings of your brother? What on earth are you on about?"

"Don't play dumb, Thomas. I don't know how you got Dean's voice, but it's not gonna work."

"Sam, I assure you – there's only the camera in here. Why would I want you to hear your brother? That's not going to help you to move on, is it? It would be counterproductive on my part," Thomas explained, watching Sam's frown falter, confusion flickering in his eyes. He knew Thomas' logic made sense. Thomas lifted a hand and pressed it against Sam's forehead. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I feel fine" Sam snapped, pulling away from the unwanted contact. "I'd feel better if you'd leave me the hell alone."

Thomas said nothing; he was not going to rise to Sam's goading. Instead, he produced his keys and unlocked the padlock from one of the cuffs attached to the frame at the top of the bed. Sam watched him suspiciously.

"What're you doing?"

Again, silence. It was almost more unnerving that Thomas' calm monologues. Sam tensed as the cuff was undone, preparing to yank his arm down, but the Englishman was expecting it. As soon as the cuff was freed from the bedframe, Thomas tugged it with both hands, using his superior leverage to pull Sam's arm up further, through the gap in the bedframe. He knelt down and reattached the cuff to the frame below the mattress, removing all slack from the chain between the leather cuffs so that Sam's arm was pulled uncomfortably against the mattress.

"Stop!" Sam shouted as Thomas moved onto his other wrist. The same thing happened again, leaving Sam's arms stretched up above his head and then down towards the floor. He jerked his arms but they were completely immobilised.

"I tried to make you more comfortable with the tape, Sam. Seems my niceties are unappreciated. I can't have you taking it off so we'll just need to use more traditional methods to silence you" Thomas explained as he tied a large knot in the centre of a bandana. Sam glared up at him, thrashing his head as the cloth descended.

"No! Donmmmph!" Sam's shout was cut off as Thomas forced the knot between his teeth and jerked it tight, tying it securely at the back of Sam's head. He groaned into the gag, hating the uncomfortable pull at the corners of his mouth and the way it compressed his tongue. Yet writhing did nothing and couldn't prevent Thomas from pulling the blindfold back down over his eyes. He whimpered softly as Thomas pulled it tight and then rechecked his gag.

"There. I think that'll do you for now."

Sam growled unintelligibly, wanting nothing more than to rip into Thomas. He heard a soft spraying sound and instantly recognised the waft of Dean's cologne. _Not again_. The smell that he'd associated with laughter and the strength of his big brother was slowly being twisted, bastardised into something nauseating. Since he couldn't breathe through his mouth, Sam was forced to inhale the full force of it through his nose, unable to escape it. He could almost feel his memories, his emotions being overwritten, slipping away out of reach, replaced by his helpless frustration. Thomas only sprayed it after restraining the Winchester, leaving him to associate the comfort of home with his captivity. Writhing and pulling, he could barely move, let alone put any distance between his face and the scent.

A whimper of despair caught in his throat as the sound of the door closing echoed through the cellar.

oOo

 **I-35 S, Outskirts of Elkhart, Iowa**

Sticking to anything that was even remotely close to the speed limit was near enough torture for Dean. While the signal for Sam's phone's last location was only two hours away, Dean just couldn't get there fast enough. What if they were actually lucky? What if Sam still had his phone? Maybe his abductor had taken it off him. Either way, it would lead them to his baby brother. That was the only thing Dean could cling onto. He had to believe that there was a light at the end of this lead.

Only when Jody had called Castiel, for the third time (from her own truck behind the Impala), stating that if Dean didn't slow down, she would relegate him to the back seat of her truck while Cas drove the Impala, did Dean ease off. Not a lot, but enough to set his teeth on edge. She knew they were in a hurry, but she also knew that getting there in one piece was equally as important. They couldn't help Sam if something happened to them.

"There." Castiel pointed to a small slip road that split off from the I-35. Dean nodded and pulled off, easing up as he took the bend smoothly even though his heart began to hammer.

This wasn't right.

The slip road continued to curve before opening up to reveal a long parking lot that was half full. People bustled from their vehicles, stretching and chatting with their travel buddies, heading towards the single storey service station building. The building was surrounded on two sides by long, slanted lawns which had picnic benches dotted along at precise intervals. Behind the main building a long line of trucks were parked in neat rows.

Dean pulled into a free space, the grumble of the Impala drowning out the sound of Jody's truck as she pulled up alongside him. He cut the engine, finding the sudden silence oppressive. Getting out of the car, he heard Cas doing the same.

"This doesn't look good" Dean murmured as Jody walked around to stand by him. She patted him arm comfortingly.

"We don't know that yet. Look, I'll go ask if anyone saw a guy fittin' the description you gave me earlier; you and Cas see if you can find the car" Jody instructed, keeping her tone firm and calm. She was in full parent mode: exuding the strength that Dean needed.

"I'll go this way" Cas offered, veering off to the left. Dean headed right, his hands driven deep into his jacket pockets. His hands were balled into fists, mostly to stop the tremors that were riding up and down his arms. Whether they were from fear or anticipation, Dean couldn't tell; he was yo-yoing between the two emotions constantly.

He walked slowly, checking each and every car, knowing that he didn't need to since he knew the make he was looking for, but he couldn't help it. They could've swapped vehicles and stayed parked up – particularly if Sam's captor needed to rest up. The hunter paid particular attention to any car with tinted windows, casually walking near them and giving each a sideways glance to peer through the windows.

All were normal. None had Sam in them.

Dean continued, getting further from the building. If they had stopped here, regardless of the time of day, it was unlikely that Sam's abductor would park near the building; the risk of someone looking in was too great, as was Sam trying to attract attention. The likelihood was that Sam was awake; Cas had tried to reach out to him again but got nothing. It was fine; Sam would sleep sometime and they would get through to him then. And there was no way in hell that Sam wouldn't try to get attention if he could.

As he came towards the edge of the parking lot, the number of cars began to thin, leaving large gaps in the spaces. Dean didn't stop though; he didn't know why but he just couldn't bring himself to turn back. He had to be thorough; if he missed _anything_ , he would kick himself for the rest of time.

He came to the end, next to a line of scrub bushes and turned back, sighing. His gaze slid to his right, stopping involuntarily. He frowned. Walking across the asphalt, he kept his eyes fixed on a small black lump that looked out of place against the curb, next to the grass. Bending down, the Winchester picked up the shattered, mangled corpse of a smart phone. The screen was completely smashed, crisscrossed with bright white cracks. It was completely ruined, almost like it had been run over by something heavy.

Dean felt the lump in his throat start to choke him.

Even though it was destroyed, he knew it was Sam's. It couldn't be anyone else's. Clutching the twisted hunk of metal and glass, Dean fought to contain himself. They had nothing.

Sam was gone.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Thomas carefully removed the cloth that covered a small silver tray. Sam eyed it suspiciously but said nothing. The Man of Letters had come in a while ago, trying to engage Sam in conversation yet again, but the hunter was having none of it. He'd spent all morning getting increasingly more uncomfortable and frustrated. He was not about to pander to Thomas' ridiculous whims. The rumble of his stomach was the only way he could tell it was getting to be near early afternoon.

"Okay, Sam, so I thought I'd walk you through a few processes, make sure that you're completely clear on the details," Thomas declared as he sat down on the edge of the bed, uncomfortably close to Sam's torso. The hunter tried to shift to the side but couldn't move. Thomas pulled the wooden chair that the tray balanced on a bit closer, picking up the first item. "Have you seen one of these before?"

It was small and plastic, only about an inch and a half wide and another inch high. It had a circular opening in its centre, roughly an inch wide and an inch deep. On either side of the circle were two plastic rings that had a nylon strap attached to both, creating a loop between the two sides. Sam frowned; he'd seen them in hospitals.

"This is a bite block. It fits into your mouth, between your front teeth and will make sure you can't close your mouth. The straps will go around the back of your head and will be fixed in place so that you can't push it out" Thomas explained, pointing to each part as he described it. Sam's heart thumped. The Man of Letters put it down and picked up a wide leather strap. "Obviously nothing special about this one – you can see what it is. I'll attach this to another set of straps on the mattress and affix this here," Thomas motioned across his own forehead, "which will stop you from moving your head."

Still Sam said nothing, but he could feel the fear prickling heat across his skin. Next, Thomas selected a coil of clear plastic. It shone in the light overhead, reflecting it as Thomas unwound it. It was obviously malleable, but still quite rigid. It wasn't particularly wide but it was at least two feet long.

Sam's breathing picked up.

"Now, once you're immobilised and the bite block is in place, I'll be able to insert this through the hole here," Thomas remarked as he demonstrated, pushing the tube through the circular opening in the bite block. Sam's breath hitched in his throat. "It's not a pleasant experience, I'm afraid. It has to go straight down your oesophagus, past your gag reflex – don't worry, you won't actually vomit at this stage – and then down into your stomach. You'll need to stay absolutely still or there's a chance that the tube could rupture something internally and we certainly don't want that. You'll still be able to breathe but you'll cough a lot and your throat will be quite sore afterwards. But it will do the job."

Sam wanted to throw up. He couldn't believe how calmly, how scientifically, Thomas was describing what was, by all accounts, torture. Toni may have done some heinous things to him, but she'd never explained them in detail before doing them. Thomas rewound the tube and put it on the tray, picking up a clear bottle that was filled with a revolting orangey gunk.

"Since we don't need to worry about your chewing anything or flavours, I'll just create a mix of foods rich in nutrients and all the things you need. It'll be processed before I come down so that it's smooth enough to go down the tube without fuss."

Sam paled.

"Of course, you can avoid making me do any of this if you choose to do as your told and eat what I give you. Which would you like?"

All his defiance, every profanity, every threat died in Sam's throat, silenced by the medical equipment arranged so neatly on the tray. He'd woken up enough times in a hospital with similar tubes rammed down his throat to give him enough inkling about what being force fed would feel like. Thomas would do it too. He wasn't just doing this for show; breakfast was enough to show Sam that.

"I'll eat" he whispered, hating the fear colouring his tone. Thomas smiled brightly.

"Excellent! Well done, Sam; your first good decision of the day!"

Turning his head so that he was facing straight up, Sam couldn't stop the tear that crept unbidden from the corner of his eye. He needed out of this hell.

He needed Dean.

oOo

 **Please review!**


	12. Small Mercies

**Apologies for the length between updates – it's been one of those weeks!**

oOo

 _"When you sleep at night: dream of only me."_

 _\- Not Alright, Smile Empty Soul_

oOo

 _His chest burned, struggling to draw in each breath, fighting the cramping in his diaphragm caused by his position. Metal shackles dug into the soft flesh of his hands, biting painfully whenever he shifted which was often. He was raised onto the tips of his toes, trying to stretch himself up and relieve the pressure around his wrists but James had seen what he was doing and simply shortened the chain that his wrists were manacled to. The Man of Letters prowled around him, lurking behind Sam's back, making his bare skin prickle._

 _Toni stood in front of him, her arms clasped behind her back as she appraised Sam, her eyes wandering up and down his frame almost clinically. When she spoke, her voice was calm, patronising._

 _"I won't apologise for locking you up. You're a danger to others – and yourself – but if you answer my question, you'll walk right out that door. I promise. I'll keep you safe" She smiled tightly, her eyes locking onto his. Sam glared down at her, clenching his jaw._

 _"Pass. You can ask me any kind of question you want but the answer's gonna be the exact same: screw you" he snarled._

 _"You don't even know what I'm going to ask you, Sam," Toni chided bringing herself closer to the Winchester._

 _"Doesn't matter. I've been tortured by the devil himself; so_ you _– you're just an accent in a pant suit. What can you do to me?" Sam smirked, his look bright and defiant despite the cold that was settling in his stomach at the cold, confident grin spreading across the Woman of Letter's features. He cried out as a sharp pain snaked across his shoulders, arching his back forward. He glanced over his shoulder at James, a thin wooden switch, much thinner than a whip and twice as painful, clasped in his balled fist and a malicious grin on his face._

 _"Speaking of Lucifer," Toni drew his attention forward again, "we need to chat about him."_

 _Sam just looked at her, twisting his wrists uncomfortably as the knot tightened in his stomach._

 _"You're important to me – to him. You've denied him for so long. He's now free of Castiel but can't sustain a vessel. He's been forced to hop from person to person, burning them out as he goes. So much death, all because you won't let him in" Toni murmured, running her hand up Sam's torso. He flinched at the contact, eyes flashing when she grabbed his chin and forced his head down. "It needs to end."_

 _"If I knew how to kill him, don't you think I'd have done it by now?" Sam growled, trying to wrench his face from her hold. He felt James coming up behind him._

 _"Kill him? You don't kill Lucifer, Sam. The apocalypse may not have happened, but that doesn't mean we can't still help Lucifer to create paradise. I'm going to look after you – help you. Together, we can achieve that dream," Toni replied as Sam stared at her, horrified. "You're going to say yes to him, Sam."_

 _"You're crazy!" Sam laughed, the sound completely humourless. He cried out as James flogged him again, agony ripping through his skin._

 _"You'll say yes, Sam; it's what I've promised him. It's my job: I'll keep you safe."_

 _"Why do you keep saying that?" Sam gasped, wrenching away from James' lashes and straight into Toni's waiting palm which caressed his bare stomach lightly._

 _"It's my job, Sam. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here."_

oOo

Thomas watched carefully as Sam twitched and grunted softly in his sleep. The Man of Letters sat beside his bed, content to just observe. It had been a rough few days for the both of them and these quiet moments were ones to be cherished. He hoped Sam was dreaming of pleasant things. Sam lay with his arms now at his sides, still protected by the leather cuffs, his ankles now wrapped in similar bands; he had behaved enough for the metal shackles to be removed. Thomas couldn't bring himself to removed his blindfold or gag; he hadn't realised Sam would still be asleep when he came down. Instead, he'd employed his latest technique, fitting a pair of small headphones to his sleeping protégé. Sam hadn't stirred, not even when Thomas had started playing the recording. Whenever Sam's dream became too intense, Thomas laid a comforting hand on him – on his leg, his arm or his torso, reassuring him that he was there. Sam would instantly quieten again, giving Thomas a wave of satisfaction before he removed his hand.

They were starting to get somewhere.

oOo

"It's my job, Sam. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here."

Thomas' voice finally registered in Sam's ears – his words manipulated by his nightmare into Toni's voice. Consciousness leapt forth, bridged by the nauseatingly soothing voice. Sam moaned around the knotted gag in his mouth. He jerked his head, confused. If Thomas was talking to him, he should be able to see, to talk. It's what happened every other time he came down.

"It's my job, Sam. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here."

Thomas' words were repeated again and Sam became aware of the strange tightness plugging his ears.

Headphones.

He bit down on the cloth in his mouth, whimpering as he tried to pull on his arms, even though he knew they'd be secured. He couldn't lie there, listening to Thomas' incessant monologues, with no idea how long it would be before the real Thomas came and released him.

"It's my job, Sam. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here."

Sam shook his head, trying to dislodge the earbuds but couldn't. He squirmed on the mattress, flinching when he felt a warm hand on his leg, a thumb rubbing his lower thigh in what the Man of Letters obviously presumed was a comforting manner. The bastard was there, sat with him. Watching. Sam groaned and thrashed, hating the touch, hating that Thomas was _right there_ and wasn't releasing him, instead settling for stroking Sam's leg. He hated the helplessness swirling inside him, hated that he was made to feel so weak.

Hated that he couldn't change a damned thing – that Thomas chose everything that happened to him.

"It's my job, Sam. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here."

oOo

Anna snapped the clean sheets as she folded them, pulling them taut to remove even the smallest crease. The stark white material was crisp, spotless as she folded it again, smoothing it out on the top of the laundry pile. She had finally managed to settle herself into a bit more of a routine. Anna was not one to pander to feelings of listlessness but she had certainly felt a strong sense of apathy since Lady Bevell's passing. She had served in the Bevell household since before Lady Toni could walk and there were days when her grief slipped through the mask she had erected so carefully, leaving her breathless.

She never wept though.

Weeping was for those of lesser upbringings; Anna would not offend Lady Bevell's memory by stooping to such base forms of emotional outbursts.

The next sheet snapped to attention.

It was part of what she detested about Sam Winchester. The man had no decorum at all. He whined and moaned, cursed and wailed, displaying a less than gentlemanly repertoire of emotions. She tolerated him for Thomas' sake, but was glad that she had little to do with the man. Thomas was much…softer than she was. Oh, Anna was patient, but she had no tolerance for silliness and disrespect and most of Sam Winchester's behaviours fell into one of those categories.

He would rue the day he was ever as rude to her as he was to Thomas.

Grabbing the final sheet, she grasped it tightly and pulled it taut, stretching out the imperfections she could see in the soft surface.

oOo

The cloths fell away and the lip of a water bottle was offered to Sam. He drank greedily, downing the cooling liquid like he'd survived a drought. He said nothing when Thomas took it away, still refusing to perform the niceties that the Englishman expected of him. It was all he could do not to scream at Thomas for the damned headphone trick. Hours seemed to have passed with Thomas' voice repeating the same phrases over and over. It had nearly been enough to drive him mad. Just when he'd thought he couldn't take much more, it had finally stopped.

"How are you feeling today, Sam?" Thomas asked, his voice setting Sam's teeth on edge. He bit down his loathing, pulling up the mask he needed to wear. He couldn't let Thomas see how much his methods were getting to him.

"Sore" Sam admitted, his eyes downcast as he shifted.

"Where?" Thomas asked, concern knitting his brow.

"My back mostly," Sam replied. He wasn't sure but he'd assumed he'd been in the cellar for over three days and he had yet to be allowed off the bed. Other than having his arms strapped at his sides, Thomas hadn't let him change positions at all. "I need to walk around. Thomas, _please_ , it's been days." Sam didn't care that he was pleading; he needed some kind of freedom. Thomas sighed.

"Sam…"

"I won't try to run; I won't do anything. I just need to move" Sam implored, his eyes fixed on the older man. Thomas met his gaze directly; Sam could almost see his mind calculating the risks, the supposed 'reward' and whether Sam had _earned_ it.

"Alright, Sam. You have… _mostly_ cooperated in the last few days. However, I want to make this clear; this is an act of good faith on my part and it's a privilege that I can rescind at any time of my choosing. The restraints will stay on and you will do as I tell you without question. If you do one single thing that doesn't comply, you'll be straight back on the bed until I see fit to let you off. Is that clear?" Thomas' conditions were relayed with a dispassionate but firm tone. It was that tone in particular that truly chilled Sam.

"Yes." Sam couldn't do anything other than agree – not if he wanted this. Thomas nodded and rose, moving over to the shelf on the opposite wall. Sam watched the older man as he selected several items and started preparing them. Down near the foot of the bed, a ring was drilled into the wall around the same height as the top of the bed. Thomas threaded a silver chain through it, looping it over and padlocking it in place with a large, heavy duty lock. The Englishman grasped the end and walked out with it.

"You cannot reach the door from here nor the shelf," Thomas stated, walking around with the chain pulled taut, demonstrating its limitations. Sam watched him carefully, swallowing his ire. Reaching down, Thomas grabbed Sam's left foot, linking the chain through a ring that was attached to the side of the leather cuff around his ankle. Another padlock snapped shut, securing Sam's ankle to the wall. Picking up a thinner, shorter chain, Thomas secured it to the other rings on the ankle cuffs, creating a short hobble between the hunter's legs. He would be able to walk but not run Sam realised with dismay.

Thomas picked up a wide leather belt, almost four inches wide with a lot more holes stretching along its spine than a normal belt. Metal rings hung from either side. He stood at Sam's side, holding it taut.

"Lift up your hips."

"Is that really necessary? I said I wouldn't try anything" Sam asked, barely keeping the grumble from his tone. Thomas frowned.

"Do you honestly think you've earned enough trust for that, Sam?" Thomas replied condescendingly. He didn't move. Sam clenched his jaw, staring stubbornly up at the ceiling as he did as Thomas instructed. He felt Thomas slide the leather underneath him and pulled it up on the other side as he lowered himself back down. Thomas buckled it up over his white shirt, making sure that it was firmly in place but not excessively tight. Yet more padlocks were added, linking the rings on Sam's wrist cuffs to the ones on the belt. The term 'excessive' didn't quite fit Thomas but, as much as Sam wanted to tell him that, he said nothing, knowing that such sarcasm would jeopardise his freedom.

Finally, Thomas unlocked his restraints from the bedframe and helped Sam up to a sitting position. Sam groaned as the pressure eased off his back, releasing some audible cracks when he rolled his shoulders and neck. He swung his feet over the edge and stood up, beyond relieved at the chance to finally move. Thomas moved away, putting the extra locks back up on the shelf, out of Sam's reach as Sam slowly shuffled back and forth in front of the bed, his knees cracking while the chain grated across the floor.

"Thank you" Sam murmured, unable to keep the appreciation from his tone. Thomas smiled at him warmly.

"You're welcome, Sam. Contrary to your popular belief, I'm not actually a monster. I keep telling you I have your best interests at heart." Thomas replied. He checked his watch. "I'm going to leave you to it for a while; I'll be back later."

Without waiting for Sam's reply, the Englishman left, leaving Sam with more freedom (if he could really call it that) than he'd had since being taken; movement, no blindfold and no gag. Sam's relief was almost palpable. He paced slowly, enjoying the feel of stretching his legs even if he couldn't go far. Looking around, he walked to the edge of the chain's limits, testing how far he could go. Thomas hadn't been exaggerating: he was nowhere near the door or the shelf and cupboard – the only places that could potentially house something useful. Even if he could stretch his legs (as far as the hobble allowed which wasn't far at all), an experimental tug on the cuffs securing his wrists to his waist proved that he was never going to be able to grab anything.

Sighing deeply, Sam continued his pacing, feeling his heart sink slowly.

oOo

The afternoon was drawing on; the sun heating the farmhouse to a warm, comfortable temperature. Thomas was sat at his desk, the laptop on so that quick glances every now and then let him check on Sam. He was impressed; so far Sam had behaved properly, using his privileges in the correct manner. He hadn't tried anything, simply wandered the cellar and studied his surroundings. A pang of guilt did pierce through Thomas; he was probably bored. Sam was an intelligent man who needed mental stimulation to keep him occupied. More importantly, without anything to focus on, he was more likely to be forming undesirable plans. It was another thing Thomas needed to work on.

He thumbed through John Winchester's journal, continuing his studies of the Winchester brothers' past. There was rudimentary demonology; nothing at all like the knowledge the Men of Letters had acquired over the centuries. Everything in the journal seemed to be based almost purely on field experience and a potluck approach to actual research. That would have to change. If Sam was to become even half the man Thomas expected him to be, it would seem that Sam still had a lot of learning to do.

Thomas smiled; two birds: one stone.

The silence dominating the room was broken when the phone inside Thomas' suit jacket went off, its tone shrill and demanding. Thomas pulled it out, swiping the green phone symbol.

"Hello?"

"Oh hi, Mr Maguire? It's Ben from Emporia Ironmongers. The piece you commissioned is finished" a thin, reedy voice crackled down the line.

"Oh excellent! I'll come and collect it" Thomas replied, grinning as he shut the journal.

"Are you sure? I can have it couriered to you if you'd prefer" Ben offered.

"No, no, don't trouble yourself. I could do with a drive and have a few other things to collect as it is" Thomas said, switching the phone to his other ear. "I'll be there before you close." He hung up and tapped his phone thoughtfully against his chin. He was loathed to go and leave Sam, but he couldn't risk anything being traced back to the farmhouse.

"Who was on the phone, Thomas?" Anna asked as she breezed through the room on her way to the kitchen. Thomas followed her.

"My piece is ready to collect. I've said I'd go and collect it but…"

"You're worried about leaving Sam" Anna finished for him. Thomas smiled at her sheepishly. Anna put her empty cup on the side next to the sink. "I would offer to go for you, but I think you should do it. A little separation is healthy. Situations will always arise where you'll need to go and he'll need to stay. It's inevitable and perfectly normal. Why don't I go and sit with him? It's about time Sam and I got to know each other."

"Would you do that? That would be wonderful, Anna and I'm sure Sam would appreciate your visit," Thomas replied gratefully. Anna nodded. "Anna, you are such a blessing. I don't know what I'd do without you.

"I'll go and prepare Sam. I've been thinking about helping him improve his studies into the supernatural; perhaps you could get him started while I'm gone?"

Anna smiled tightly. "I'll see what I can do."

oOo

Sam and Thomas both looked up as the door to the cellar opened again. Thomas dropped his gaze back down, finishing his adjustments to Sam's cuffs. The Winchester was sat in a high-backed wooden chair next to the bed, opposite another, vacant chair. Sam had done as he was told with minimal fuss, earning him a sickening amount of patronising praise from the Man of Letters. Curiosity had gotten the better of Sam; it seemed strange that Thomas was yet again securing him to the furniture, although he was glad it wasn't the damned bed again. The leather cuffs were proving to be alarmingly versatile; Thomas had unlocked them from the waist belt and removed the hobbling chain from between his ankles, securing his wrists to the back of the tall posts on either side of the backrest of the chair so that his arms were parallel with the wood. He could neither move his arms to the sides or up or down. His legs were similarly fastened.

Anna stepped down into the cellar, a cup and saucer perfectly balanced in one hand and a small satchel in the other. It was the first time Sam had seen her since his arrival.

 _"I hear you've been a bit of a nuisance already."_

She had been cold condescending then and the sight of her now didn't evoke any feelings of comfort. She met his gaze head on, her dyed auburn hair perfectly coifed. She wore a tailored navy suit, her skirt ending rigidly at her knees and her crisp white blouse was a stark contrast to the deep blue of her jacket. Simple gold rings adorned the ring fingers of both her hands; she must have been married at some point. She was significantly older than Thomas; Sam pegged her in her early sixties – at least. Yet it was her eyes that made Sam readjust his position, suddenly nervous and unsure why. Anna was not like Thomas; she was traditional, reserved. Somehow, Sam didn't think he could even attempt to make an ally of her. He glanced up at Thomas as the Man of Letters moved around him, his hand patting Sam's shoulder.

"I thought it was about time that you and Anna got better acquainted," Thomas explained, smiling down at Sam. "Be a good lad for Anna, Sam." He gave Sam's shoulder a final squeeze and headed towards the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Sam blurted out, his eyes flicking between the two. He didn't want to be alone with her; he couldn't explain why but something in his gut told him this wasn't right.

"Not to worry Sam; I won't be far. Anna has kindly offered to help you study. There is a lot you still need to learn about our ways," Thomas replied as he looked back at Sam. "Now, I expect you to be on your best behaviour for Anna; she is a lady after all."

Sam watched him leave and Anna walk forward, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. The door slammed shut, blocking out the sunlight. Anna put her satchel down on the bed and placed her cup and saucer down on the small table.

"I hope you appreciate the effort Thomas has been going to for you, Samuel" she remarked as she pulled out a small leather-bound book from her bag.

"It's Sam," the hunter growled, his glare dissipating under the withering look she shot at him, her body going completely still. The silence hung heavy and oppressive between the two of them for a moment until Sam looked away and down.

"Thomas is a caring soul, Samuel, and he has, for some reason, decided that you are redeemable. I have yet to be convinced; perhaps you can prove me wrong this afternoon," she continued, her tone clipped and hard. Sam said nothing. Anna smiled tightly. "Good, that's much better. A gentleman always keeps a civil tone and only says what needs to be heard."

Inwardly, Sam groaned. The thought of having to spend any amount of time with another supercilious bitch who thought it was her role to change him was beyond infuriating. Why couldn't people just let him be himself? His whole life was full of others trying to manipulate and control him: his dad, Azazel, Ruby, Lucifer, Gadreel…the list was almost endless. And he was getting sick of it. He felt the ire prickle like fire across his skin. If Anna thought she was going to get the better of him, she had another thing coming.

"Now, I thought we would begin with a bit of history; are you familiar with James I's tome, Daemonology?" she asked as she sat herself down, knees together, book on her lap as she sipped her tea.

"No."

"Excellent. We'll start there then."

oOo

 **US-75N, outskirts of New Strawn, Kansas**

Thomas tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, enjoying the way the gentle tones of Chopin's Spring Waltz made his heart swell. He was the happiest he'd felt in weeks – the happiest since before Lady Toni's passing. Everything was going the way he wanted it to. Sam was slowly but surely coming around to his way of thinking, in fact, it wouldn't be long before he would start the next phase of Sam's rehabilitation. That part was going to be difficult. On face value, it would look like Sam would regress back to his defiant stage again, but Thomas would know better. He would just need to make his arguments ironclad.

He watched the road stretch out before him, few other vehicles blocking his path. That was the pleasant thing about driving in America; the endless stationary traffic jams of England were non-existent here. There were stretches where he would drive and not see another car for miles. It would be the one thing he would miss about this country before they repatriated back to England. He had already vowed that they would leave the bustle of London behind; the West Country was always a wondrous place; Thomas had always fancied living in Devon or on the wilds of Dartmoor. Anna wouldn't object and Sam would appreciate its natural beauty.

Everything was going to be perfect.

oOo

 **Okay, so this chapter and the next one were meant to be one but it's got monstrously long and I've had to split it. On the plus side, I'm now ahead of myself and can get the next update out quicker.**

 **Please review!**


	13. Purified in Fire

**This is not the…happiest of chapters shall we say. Some major hurt!Sam so consider yourselves warned.**

oOo

 _"Purified in fire"_

 _\- Forgiven, Disturbed_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

"But I think these means which ye call the school and rudiments of the Devil are things lawful and have been approved for such in all times and ages. As in special, this science of astrology which is one of the special members of the mathematics."

Good god, Sam had discovered the English's most base torture so far: Anna's recital of King James I's ridiculous notions on witchcraft and demonology. Thomas' damned headphones and monotonous voice would be an improvement on this. Her sharp tone reminded him of old movies where he'd see the stern schoolmistress lecturing to her students; he was pretty sure his own expression was as exasperated as the students. The more she wittered on, the more he felt he ire rise, simmering slowly in his chest.

"…There are two things which the learned have observed-"

"He clearly wasn't one of them" Sam spat, his annoyance finally getting the better of him. Anna stopped, her glare snapping up to confront him.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean, Samuel?"

"Do you honestly believe that James I had any clue whatsoever about demons? He was yet another naïve idiot who meddled in things he didn't know anything about. Sure, he was on the right lines with some of his theories, but that's all they are: theories. Even if they were on his radar, I doubt he had any idea what the Men of Letters even were. He wanted to look like an expert and no one else had the balls to stand up to him and tell him to do his own damned job," Sam snapped, Anna's eyes narrowing when he rolled his.

"This is exactly what is the problem with you Americans: you have absolutely no grasp of respecting those in power."

"We have plenty, but I don't respect people because of their power. It doesn't mean they deserve it and it definitely doesn't earn them instant respect. There are a lot of people who are in control and shouldn't be. They demand gratitude when they don't deserve it."

Anna's hands tightened on the book.

"There are also times when those who are not in control should learn their place. Clearly that is a life lesson that imbecile of a brother didn't teach you," Anna hissed, her brown eyes dark and angry. Sam felt his control snap.

"You think you're better than us? Listen lady, you don't know jack-shit about what hunting is really like. I know more than you could ever dream of knowing; I've been to hell, I'm met God – the capital G version – and ganked more things that you've had hot showers. Thomas is no better than a deluded, obsessive psychopath who is convinced I'm gonna become some demented lap dog. Toni was the same. You abduct me – twice – and think somehow I'm going to fall in line. You know what? Screw you. Screw all of you. Screw being _grateful_ and _respectful_ ; none of you deserve it and the sooner Dean finds me or I get out of this, the sooner you're gonna realise that you made the biggest mistake of your life coming after me again."

He didn't regret it; he couldn't. The pent-up anger of the last few days; the helplessness, the frustration, everything had snowballed and her jab at Dean was the final straw. The ache for his brother was deep and incessant and it drove him forward. But the silence that fell over the cellar, the slight tightening around the edges of Anna's eyes, even though the rest of her face remained impassive, made the steel in him fold and the regret seep in. He hadn't just crossed the line; he'd danced the macabre all over it.

Anna still said nothing, instead slipping the thin piece of black ribbon that was snaked through the spine of the book down, saving the page, as she closed it and place it carefully on the bed. Sam watched her, squirming against the cuffs but they held fast, the small padlocks clinking quietly as his heart began to hammer. Anna reached into her satchel and pulled out a strange object. Sam's eyes narrowed as he tried to work out what it was. It looked a lot like a belt but it wasn't the right shape. In the centre of a long, wide strip of leather, an odd silicone bulb shape was stuck to it. He lost sight of it as Anna walked around behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, flinching when she brought her face down so that she was inches from his right ear, her breath tickling his neck as she spoke.

"I used to be a dog breeder and trainer, long before I was Lady Bevell's head of house. Do you know how we used to deal with uncooperative dogs?" Her words sent a chill rippling down's Sam's spine. "We'd muzzle them until they learn."

Her arms moved around either side of him and suddenly Sam felt something hard press against his lips. Without thinking, he opened his mouth to protest, a startled 'mmph' escaping as something large and hard was pulled back between his teeth. It was huge: it filled his mouth and blocked his tongue, forcing it down to the bottom of his mouth. He shook his head frantically, eyes wide but Anna didn't let go. His jaw was stretched uncomfortably wide and he panicked when he realised he couldn't close his mouth. A soft groan was muted further when he felt a panel of supple leather close over his lips, sealing his mouth and embracing the lower half of his face as Anna pulled it tight, tipping his head forward so that his hair fell into his eyes while she fastened the buckle tightly at the nape of his neck. Wrenching his head, Sam tried desperately to find some give in the strict gag. There was none and his shouts of indignation were reduced to indistinguishable whispers.

He glared up at Anna through the locks of hair that had fallen over his eyes, his chest heaving. She swept a hand over his forehead, brushing the long strands out of the way.

"Well, that won't do at all."

She moved over to the shelf, her eyes searching but narrowing when she couldn't see what she wanted. "Won't be a moment; sit tight, Samuel."

Breezing past him, Anna climbed the stairs and headed out, leaving Sam alone. He looked down, over his shoulder, to either side of the chair, jerking his arms futilely. The small padlocks swayed mockingly in their eyelets. Yanking his legs proved just as pointless; he wasn't going anywhere. He tried clenching his jaw but was met with the hard resistance of the bulb-like monstrosity jammed in his mouth. It was hard but coated in a slightly spongy, vile tasting silicone that reminded Sam of the air that was blown out of a deflated balloon. It was pressed up against the hard palette of his mouth and compressed his tongue. Forming any kind of sound, let alone words, was nigh on impossible. She had robbed him of the one weapon he'd always been able to rely on and, whatever she was after now, it wasn't going to be for his comfort – that much Sam did know.

The Englishwoman was back within a few minutes, satisfied when she heard the small moans and whimpers from the hunter before her. Anna enjoyed the way his eyes narrowed and then widened, accompanied by small shakes of his head when he saw the silver scissors and towel grasped in her hands.

"Now then, Thomas hadn't told me just how unpresentable you'd become. I think it's about time we sorted that out, don't you?" she remarked briskly, draping the towel around his shoulders. An incoherent yowl was his response as he tried to jerk away from her. Hooking her fingers up and through the buckle behind his head, Anna twisted Sam's head around, forcing him to quieten and look up at her. "There are two ways we can do this. First option: you behave and I just give you a bit of a trim, take some of the shagginess out of your hair. Failing that, I can go get the clippers and take the whole lot off. Despite your rudeness, Samuel, I'm willing to give you the choice. This is one of the few choices I'll ever give you. Which is it going to be? Grunt once for the first option or twice for the second."

The bitch meant it too. Sam couldn't let her do it; he wasn't a vain man, but his hair was part of his identity – who he was. He needed to keep something from his old – no – _his_ life. He gave a soft moan and relaxed.

"Good boy. That's what I thought. You're going to stay perfectly still; any trouble _at all_ –" she enunciated the last two words carefully "– and I'll go straight to the second option." She let go of his gag and grabbed the first locks of hair. Sam sat motionless, breathing heavily through his nose as he fought the anger, the humiliation, that rose within him.

Anna took her time, snipping and trimming as Sam watched short flecks of hair float down lifelessly around his shoulders. It wasn't the hair cut that bothered him – he was due one anyway – it was the symbolism behind the act. Anna wasn't really that bothered by his appearance – Sam doubted whether she really gave a rat's ass about him – but with each strand that fell away, she was taking a little piece of him. A little piece of his independence, his identity. The only thing that probably stopped her from shearing his whole head was the thought of what Thomas would say. And, yet again, the Winchester found himself in Thomas' debt and hated it.

She took her time, drawing out his discomfort for as long as she could, all the while Sam tried his hardest to sit calmly and silently. He couldn't provoke her. Her fingers in his hair made his skin crawl as she worked her way around his head; the sharp snicking of the scissors the only sound in the cellar.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Anna remarked as she finished, scooping the towel from his shoulders and wiping the stray hairs from the back of his neck with its corner. He glared up at her balefully as she folded the towel and put it over by the door. "It seems you _are_ capable of behaving yourself," she continued as she moved behind him again.

Sam felt her fingers work against the buckle at the back of his head and relief filled him. His jaw was already aching from being forced open by the silicone bulb. The buckle was loosened from the back of his neck, but, rather than pull it forwards and out of his mouth, Anna pulled back, yanking his head back against the wood of the chair behind him, eliciting a muffled groan from him as he winced. Struggling feebly, he fought against her, trying to work out what the hell she was doing. The leather panel tightened across his cheeks again.

"The problem we have, therefore, is that your behaviour is clearly a choice. You need to realise it's the _wrong_ choice." Finally, he heard her step back, but when he tried to move his head, he couldn't. A muffled whimper, barely audible, escaped his throat when he realised what she'd done. Rather than relieving him, she'd looped the buckle through the panels in the back of the chair and secured it across the back of the wood, preventing Sam from moving his head at all.

The hunter wrenched his body desperately, trying for all he was worth to move, quiet indistinguishable moans of discomfort escaping the cruel gag. Anna moved around to his side, stroking his hair softly, patronising humour glinting in her eyes as he peered up at her from the corner of his eye. "Did you honestly think that small episode was enough punishment for your vulgar outburst? Thomas has clearly been far too soft on you, Samuel. I, on the other hand, know how to tame unruly beasts. If you're going to be offensive and improper, I don't see why you should have the privilege of conversing with me at all."

She sat back down in her chair, picking up the book once more ignoring the incoherent whuffles coming from the boy. She reopened it and met Sam's horrified gaze with a serene look.

"Now, where were we?"

oOo

Thomas parked up, humming softly to himself as he stepped out of the car, grasping the wrapped piece in one hand, the paper crumpling beneath his grip. Strolling across the lawn, the car doors beeped behind him, locking automatically while he enjoyed the warmth that bathed the open Kansas air. He pushed open the front door of the farmhouse, placing the package on the table just inside the door along with the car keys. He'd been gone close to three hours and was pleased that Anna hadn't called; they'd agreed that she only would in an emergency. The knowledge that nothing dire had occurred in his absence was pleasing.

Exiting the house, he walked briskly across the clipped grass, heading for the cellar. The handle was warm under his touch as he pulled the door open. Descending the stairs, he could hear Anna's voice as she read aloud, her voice cathartic. Her back came into view as he descended, the rest of the cellar opening up before him. A frown crinkled across his brow when his eyes fell on Sam. The hunter's eyes locked onto his pleadingly, his throat clearly working as Thomas heard what was presumably supposed to be his name escape from behind the strict leather gag Anna had muzzled him with. Of course, Thomas couldn't be sure – the sound was an incoherent whimper.

"Oh dear, it looks like you've had a spot of bother, Anna," Thomas remarked, sitting himself on the bed between the two. Anna replaced the thin bookmark and closed the tome, holding it on her lap.

"Samuel is learning a lesson in humility," Anna replied, eliciting a quiet growl from the Winchester which she silenced with a pointed look. It wasn't even a glare, but Sam had clearly learned its meaning. Thomas was impressed. "It's exactly as I said before, Thomas: if you give him an inch, he'll take a mile. However, we've made some excellent progress this afternoon."

Sam wriggled on the chair, his muscles taut as he strained against his bonds, his eyes never leaving Thomas. The Englishman smiled sympathetically and stroked his hair, noting the shorter length.

"I know, Sam. I know. I'm back now," he crooned, enjoying smoothing Sam's hair affectionately, ignoring the fact that Sam couldn't move away from his touch. "You know, Anna wouldn't have to be so strict with you if you did as we asked. I expected you to show her the same level of respect as you show me. Now, I think this needs to stay on for a while longer, don't you?" Sam groaned, his eyes wide and beseeching. Thomas shook his head. "No, Sam; you can stop looking at me like that. I'm deeply disappointed in you. You really have no one to blame but yourself. But not to worry – we'll get there in time." He turned away from Sam, smiling apologetically at Anna. "Thank you so much, Anna, for looking after him. I think it's about time both of us had a cup of tea and a catch up."

Anna smiled warmly at him as she gathered her belongings, the pair of them ignoring their errant ward completely.

"That sounds like a fine idea."

oOo

The evening stretched across the open fields, the warm glow cooling as the clouds began to descend, blanketing the sky in a dismal grey. The lush green of the fields turned to an ominous dark jade, the shadows disappearing and turning to solid darkness on the ground. The first fat droplets of rain splashed down on the ground, seeping into the dusty earth. Soon it became a steady hammering, drilling against the farmhouse and metal door of the storm cellar.

The sound pattered down as a soft drumming to Sam who sat alone, languishing in the hard wooden chair. When Thomas had reappeared earlier, Sam had been sure that the Man of Letters would take pity on him and release him from Anna's contraptions. Of course he didn't. They were like some demented tag-team parents; good cop and bad cop but both fundamentally united against him. Thomas hadn't even loosened Anna's muzzle, choosing to let Sam suffer under the loathed device. His jaw ached painfully, each throb sending dull licks of pain along his nerves. The skin around his wrists and ankles was bruised from his repeated yanks. He couldn't move at all and he had never felt so truly helpless. Eventually hot, angry tears had slipped from the corners of his eyes as he howled in frustration into the isolated cellar.

The rain was interrupted by the sound of the cellar door shrieking on its hinges, Thomas' quick footfalls rapping against the concrete as he hurried in out of the driving rain.

"It's positively vile out there tonight," he remarked conversationally as he entered, shutting down the umbrella he'd used to protect himself from the elements. Propping it against the wall, the droplets of rain began to pool on the concrete. Thomas turned to face Sam, a sad smile on his face when he caught Sam's expression. He reached out and wiped the tears from Sam's cheek with a soft thumb. "Shush, it's alright, Sam. You're doing really well."

Sam simply closed his eyes, unable to take it anymore. He couldn't read the Man of Letters, no matter how much he tried. Cooperating, begging, shouting…none of it mattered. Thomas would do whatever the hell he wanted. His thumb disappeared as he walked around the back of the hunter. Sam just sat there, unable to follow his movements.

Thomas reached up onto the shelf, selecting the small brass box that was nestled at the back. Opening it, he pulled out a syringe and small bottle filled with a clear liquid. He'd been able to salvage the drug after its last use in the barn with Lucifer – there was still plenty left. It didn't require a lot to work efficiently. His fingers made quick work of extracting a small dose of the liquid before he replaced it in the padded lining of the box. Coming up silently behind the hunter, Thomas crouched down next to his left arm. Thomas didn't need to hold it; the cuff prevented Sam from moving and disrupting the needle. Wordlessly, he inserted it gently into Sam's bicep. The hunter shifted slightly, but Thomas knew it didn't feel like more than an insect bite. He depressed the plunger slowly and removed it, noting that Sam made no indication that he knew what Thomas had done.

Good.

Thomas put the syringe back on the shelf, ready for him to discard later.

Sam felt…weird. He listened as Thomas bustled around behind him, moving things and talking about nothing in particular. Sam frowned, blinking heavily. Thomas continued talking but he couldn't concentrate on what the Englishman said. He could feel his body relaxing, his eyelids drooping, vision blurring, until it was only the straps holding him up.

"Sam?"

He heard Thomas call his name but it sounded far off, like he was in a bubble.

Thomas peered down at the Winchester, satisfied. Sam's eyes, when they opened, roamed aimlessly, completely unfocused. He would go back and get the rest of his equipment and summon Anna; by the time they got back, the sedative would have taken hold properly.

oOo

Everything felt disjointed and strange, like he wasn't a part of his own body. Whenever he thought he was going to go under permanently, hit by a wave of unconsciousness, he was pulled back again, barely clinging on. Sam would blink and find himself in a new position; blink again and Thomas would be there; once more and he was gone. He moaned softly, aware that he was still gagged, but he couldn't feel the wood of the chair pressed against the back of his head anymore. Instead, he could feel cold metal against his cheek; he was led flat on his stomach on a metal surface, his arms hanging over the sides. A distant clanking noise reached him whenever he tried to pull his arms. They didn't cooperate and he was too tired to care.

Thomas turned the long thin pole over again, his hand gloved to protect him from the heat. The stand-alone fire sconce burned brightly in the centre of the room, next to the metal gurney where Sam was secured. Moving him hadn't been a problem – with Anna's help – Sam was too out of it to resist. They'd removed his shirt, revealing smooth, tanned skin that flickered bronze in the firelight before securing him down firmly on the table. He may be sedated, but he was certainly going to feel what was coming.

Turning the metal pole again in the coals, he watched the iron flaring hot. Taking a medical wipe, he cleaned the whole of Sam's right shoulder blade from the centre of his back to his side, rubbing methodically to make sure the whole patch of skin was clean. Thomas glanced up at Sam's face, content to see him still unfocused.

"Good lad, Sam. It'll be over soon, don't you worry," he soothed, stroking Sam's hair back out of his eyes. Glancing over at the pole, he then nodded to Anna. "Anna, if you would." She stepped forward, placing a hand down on the base of Sam's neck and partially onto his cheek. Slipping the mitten back on, Thomas grasped the end of the pole, lifting the whole thing from the sconce. The end was circular and flat, the same intricate design that adorned Sam's necklace carved into it. The whole base was no wider than the bottom of a coffee mug. Holding it directly over Sam's skin, Thomas glanced at Anna.

"Ready?"

Sam felt the pressure on his neck increase, pressing his head down. He didn't know why.

Then his whole world was on fire.

A muffled shriek escaped from Sam as Thomas pressed the brand down onto his exposed skin, his muscles spasming and jerking as he writhed beneath the white-hot agony that plumed with smoke from his charring skin. Anna kept her grip firm, Thomas' other hand holding Sam's shoulder flat as he held the metal in place.

Seconds were hours. Every fibre was on fire as it scorched through him, igniting an agony he couldn't describe. It was too much. Too much, too long. Sam's body slumped as the pain robbed him, mercifully, of his consciousness.

Thomas pulled the metal off, placing it back in the sconce and removing the mitten. He looked down at Sam's limp form, noting his deep even breathing rate. That was good. Hopefully it would be enough to keep him under until morning. Anna released him, finally removing the muzzle from the sleeping hunter as Thomas dabbed antiseptic cream to the open wound on Sam's shoulder. The edges were blackened, but the centre had almost bubbled up, turning a sickening yellow surrounded by a raw pink. It wouldn't be quick to heal, but Thomas knew that – and had prepared for it.

"Are you coming up?" Anna asked as she placed the contraption up on the shelf – they didn't know when they might have need of it again.

"No, I'm going to stay; I need to be here when he wakes if this is going to work. But you go on, Anna – it's been a long day," he replied, ripping open a new non-adhesive bandage, the kind that wouldn't stick to an open wound. He smeared another layer of the salve onto the gauze before placing it onto the brand lightly. Anna gave him a small pat on the back when she walked past him, leaving the Man of Letters to tend to his ward.

oOo

Consciousness slowly pulled him back from oblivion even though Sam fought desperately against it. He didn't want to wake up; he didn't want to be in this nightmare anymore. Everything ached: his jaw, his wrists, his shoulder. God, did his shoulder hurt. But why? Flashes of images catapulted through his mind's eye but they didn't form a coherent memory. Thomas coming in, soaked. Distant voices. Lying down.

Then nothing but endless burning.

He couldn't remember – not really and the more he tried, the less he could. Thomas had done something to him and whatever it was, it wasn't good.

Slowly, Sam's eyes eased open and he blinked the cellar back into focus.

"Sam?" Thomas' voice drifted to him and Sam groaned, turning his head the other way on the pillow. He didn't want Thomas to be there. Why couldn't he just go? Tugging on his arms, Sam found them buckled down at his sides, but, because he was lying on his stomach, pulling on them was uncomfortable. That wasn't the worst part though. When he tensed his back, agony flared through his right shoulder. "Sam, are you alright? I'm worried about you," Thomas asked, his voice laced with concern. Sam flinched when he felt Thomas' hand fall on his head, stroking his hair. "It's alright, I'm here." Sam lifted his head, trying to peer at his shoulder. He could see a patch of white spread across his bare skin. An image – a feeling – flashed through his mind: Anna's hand on his neck, holding him down.

"What the hell did you do to me?" he rasped, turning back to face Thomas, who removed his hand, the hunter's glare red hot and angry. Thomas was sat beside him on the wooden chair, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, trepidation written across his features as his brows furrowed in confusion.

"What do you mean?" he asked quizzically. Sam hesitated, thrown by the Englishman's tone. It was a game, yet another manipulation. It had to be.

"Stop bullshitting me. What. Did. You. Do?" Sam snapped, wincing when the tension that rippled through him aggravated whatever was on his shoulder. Thomas leaned forward, resting a hand on Sam's bicep.

"Sam, calm down; please don't agitate yourself. Look, I won't lie to you but I need you to listen to me carefully," he said, his tone mild but firm. It was the kind of tone the police used to inform a family when a death had occurred. Sam frowned at him but said nothing, oddly transfixed.

"You fell asleep – I watched you – and the next thing I know, I could hear you screaming. When I checked the monitor, you were struggling like a man possessed. Obviously, I came straight down," Thomas explained, his eyes remaining fixed on Sam who felt the uneasiness build in his chest.

"I don't remember…" Sam murmured, disconcerted. Thomas frowned, thoughtfully.

"None of it?"

"No."

"When I took some of your restraints off, you were screaming that he was going to find you, that you weren't safe. You said you needed to be safe."

Sam looked at him astonished. "Safe from who?"

"Let me finish, Sam, all in good time," Thomas interrupted softly. "When you said that, you started screaming and I could smell burning. When I moved you, I found this." Thomas leaned over and pulled gently at the tape holding the bandage down. Sam turned his head, eyes widening.

"What the hell is that?!" he exclaimed, transfixed by the charred flesh beneath. His stomach roiled uncomfortably and he swallowed the bile which rose up his throat. Thomas gently lowered the bandage back over the brand. Sam turned again, glaring up at Thomas. "Why would you do that to me?!"

"Sam, I didn't."

"Then who the hell did?!"

"You did."

Thomas' statement hit him like a punch in the gut. He tried to inhale and couldn't. His lungs locked. Thomas' gaze stayed on him as the seconds passed. His hand stayed on Sam's arm. It had to be a lie; how could he have done that?!

"I don't…I don't understand…" Sam whispered. Thomas' thumb made small circular motions on his bicep.

"I didn't want to have to tell you this…I was hoping to find a way to help you before you found out," Thomas sighed, regret weighing heavily on him. "Do you remember what you asked Lucifer, Sam, back in that barn?"

"Yeah" Sam replied, dread creeping in. That tiny voice of doubt within him began to laugh.

"You asked him to let you go on without any knowledge of what he was doing; that he'd find you a small corner in your mind where he wouldn't bother you anymore."

"What're you saying?"

Sam knew. He knew it but didn't want to believe it. Thomas gave him a small, sad smile.

"You said yes, Sam. You said yes to Lucifer."

oOo

 **Please review! (Thomas has got a lot of explaining to do…)**


	14. Truth and Lies

**And here is my Christmas present to you all! Time to get some answers!**

oOo

 _"What if I said I believe?_

 _Would you rescue me?"_

 _\- Rescue Me, Black Stone Cherry_

oOo

"You said yes, Sam. You said yes to Lucifer."

No.

No no no no no no.

He was lying. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. He would know.

"It is, Sam. I'm so sorry" Thomas murmured, keeping his hand on Sam's arm when the words poured, jumbled and frantic from the hunter. Sam just shook his head continuously, tears welling in his eyes.

"I would never imagine _this_. Why the hell would I imagine you? Why would I want _this_?!" Sam snapped, motioning to the whole room with his head. The tears, hot and angry, fell onto his pillow. Thomas reached up and wiped them away softly. Sam tried to jerk away from him but the movement sent a flare of pain through his shoulder and it took everything he had to suppress a pained sob.

"It's not about wanting it Sam, in fact, it's the total opposite –"

"That doesn't explain why I would create this – you abducting me, manipulating me, _torturing_ me."

"You didn't create this event, Sam; I did," Thomas explained, letting his hand rest on Sam's bare, uninjured shoulder. Sam's frown turned quizzical. "I'm not a part of your mind – you haven't 'imagined' me; I'm…lord, how do I put this…I'm a…projection, for want of a better term. I'm the real Thomas, Sam, the one you knew from England; I'm not something you – or Lucifer – has created in your head."

"How is that even possible?"

Thomas gave a small smile. "Anna is quite the accomplished spell caster – and psychic. The best that the British Men of Letters has, in fact. For small amounts of time, she is able to project me into your mind. That's why I'm not here all the time. I've been trying to reach you for weeks, but it's only been in the last few days that I've been about to interact with you properly – hence why it took me so long to get you away from Dean."

"You seriously expect me to believe any of this?" Sam scoffed. He wanted to wrench away from Thomas' incessant touch, his constant 'soothing' stroking. The very feel of his touch made Sam's skin crawl but the straps held him down and the agony in his shoulder stopped him from wriggling.

"You're not _supposed_ to believe any of this – that's Lucifer's game. Lucifer needs you tucked away, safe inside your subconscious, sheltered from outside influence. He needs you to doubt me. He needs you to fight me. You're letting him influence your emotions; you're meant to want out of here, to get back to your 'normal' life. The deeper you get into _that_ life, the deeper Lucifer gets his hooks in you. I had to bring you here, had to get you away, keep you here, so that Lucifer can't find you. If I let _you_ know where you are, _he_ will find out. I'm trying to keep you safe – it's what I keep telling you."

"Safe?! You take me from my brother, keep me tied up in some hell hole and claim you're doing it all for my benefit. If it was true, you'd trust me – you wouldn't do any of this!" Sam growled.

"Sam, you can't even trust yourself right now – your back injury proves that. You're creating scenarios where you think I've physically hurt you – all to make yourself doubt me. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Lucifer made you do it, almost like a psychological trap. But I would never hurt you, Sam. Remember our time in London? I was never violent with you – I'm not a violent man. You know that."

Sam hesitated.

"Think about it. Why _would_ I hurt you? What good would it do? It wouldn't make you trust me, would it?" Thomas murmured, brushing a lock of Sam's hair out of his eyes. Sam's jaw clenched. "The problem we have is that you _asked_ Lucifer to trap you; you _wanted_ this. You don't want to fight him. You don't want to trust me. That's why I've had to use the tactics I have; I'm trying to help you break Lucifer's hold over you. By associating restriction and negativity with the thoughts and emotions linked to the world Lucifer has created for you, I'm hoping you'll get stronger. Fight back against him."

"You're sick," Sam whispered, horrified as he felt the bile rise up his throat. "You've concoct some farfetched…fantasy where you get to be some kind of warped hero and then you expect me to believe it. I don't. I won't."

Thomas sighed deeply. "Think about everything that hasn't felt right since you got back. The things you've seen, the way you've felt. The mistrust you felt of your brother."

Sam's journal entry flashed through his mind – the one he didn't remember writing.

 _I can't trust him. There's something strange in the looks he gives me when he thinks I'm not looking._

He hadn't told anyone about that. How could Thomas possibly know that? It was too much. Way too much. He couldn't listen to it anymore.

"Get the hell away from me" he snarled, trying to shrug off Thomas' hand. He turned his head away, staring stubbornly at the wall. He didn't want to listen to anymore of the Englishman's lies.

"Alright, Sam; I know this is a lot to take in, a lot to digest. I'm going to give you time," Thomas murmured, his hand disappearing from Sam's shoulder. Finally. Sam heard the chair legs scrape across the floor.

Thomas gazed down, almost sadly, at the hunter. He hadn't expected Sam to believe him straightaway; they were a long way off that. He would just need to be resolute. Relentless. Sam would come round eventually. Picking up the cloths from the table beside the bed, he leaned over, giving Sam's hair a final stroke. "I'm sorry, Sam," he repeated as he grasped the cloth in both hands and hooked the knot into Sam's mouth. The hunter grunted and recoiled, but Thomas secured the gag quickly. "This is for your own good; I know Lucifer is hunting for you and I don't know if he can hear you. I can't risk that. I also need you to think seriously about what I've said – no distractions," he explained as he slipped the blindfold over Sam's eyes again. Thomas fitted the headphones back on Sam again, turning the recording on but turning it down low.

"It's my job, Sam. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here."

Sam moaned and wriggled, the soft sound interjected with sharp gasps as his jostled his shoulder. Thomas ran a comforting hand down his back.

"I'll be back soon."

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The bunker was dipped in quiet: a heavy, oppressive hush that was stifling, unbearable. The corridors were dimly lit, the library the only room that was active. Both long tables were awash with paper, tomes, maps: there was barely any surface visible beneath it all. The lights cast a warm yellow glow throughout the room; it would have been comforting, homely, on any other day.

Not anymore.

Jody walked in, two mugs of coffee steaming in her hands as she climbed the steps up from the kitchen. Her soft brown eyes gazed sadly at Dean. The oldest Winchester was sat at one end of the table, sprawled across the sea of paper, his head resting on his arms, his frown indented into his forehead even in sleep. He'd conked out a few hours beforehand and the sheriff hadn't had the heart to wake him. If she'd insisted on sending him to bed, he would have ignored her and carried on working, the same as he had done for the last few days. Days which had been full of research, phone calls, endless circuits around dead ends which produced nothing.

Sam had been taken nearly a week ago and they had no clue who was responsible or why they'd grabbed him. No one had contacted Dean and no one had seen Sam. Even Castiel's numerous attempts to contact him had proved fruitless.

Jody couldn't even imagine how Dean had coped in the last four months. She'd seen him on occasion during that time and he'd somehow convinced her that he was on top of everything. She'd had every faith in him – she still did – but he was a mess. He ate when she shoved food in his face, drank the coffee she stuck in his hand after pulling the whiskey he automatically reached for out of his grasp and slept brokenly when she threatened to set Cas on him.

But even though he was putting everything he had into their search, he was turning up nothing. None of them were.

The sheriff set the two mugs down and turned her attention to the hunter.

"Dean? Honey, wake up," she called gently, running her hand through the soft strands of his hair. Dean stirred, inhaling deeply as his eyes eased open. Jody's hand was warm and welcome on the back of his head, calming the storm that began to rage as soon as he woke. He lifted his hand and wiped a hand across his face, clearing his throat.

"What time is it?" His voice was thick and raspy with sleep. Jody pushed the coffee into his hand.

"A little after 11am."

"You should've woken me earlier" Dean grumbled. Jody raised an eyebrow, giving him her disapproving-parent look.

"So that you could get cranky earlier? You're more use rested and you know it" she retorted, taking the seat next to him. They looked up as Castiel reappeared, his expression grim and frustrated.

"Anythin'?" Dean asked instantly, knowing the answer before the angel had the chance to say it. Cas shook his head and sat on the opposite side of the table.

"I don't understand it. I've attempted to contact him habitually every hour for three days. He must have slept at some point. And we know he isn't dead," the angel grumbled. One of the first things they had done was contact Billie who had revealed, with a clear sense of dismay, that Sam hadn't crossed over. She was still eagerly waiting for either brother to die so that she could reap them. There was no way any other reaper was taking them from her. "I'm being blocked – by what I don't know – but that is the only feasible explanation."

"So it _has_ to be someone who knows about angels and what we do – which we figured anyway," Dean confirmed. He looked at Jody. "Could you start researchin' possible angel blocks? Anythin' that would stop Cas gettin' in and ways we can reverse it." Jody nodded and got up, giving Dean's shoulder a quick squeeze as she wandered back to the catalogues.

Dean took a large gulp of his coffee, glad of its instant warmth, both physical and emotional. He would've fallen apart without Jody and Cas' combined strengths. After finding Sam's destroyed phone, he'd lost it. He'd just got Sam back and to have him ripped away, _again_ , with no clue about who had him or where, _again_ , was too much. Jody had taken charge, giving him direction and focus when he hadn't been able to do it himself.

She'd put him back together.

"Dean." Castiel's voice snapped him from his reverie. "There is something else I think we should try."

"I'm all ears."

"With you."

Dean's brow furrowed. "Me?"

"Yes. With your memory of the night Sam was taken."

"We already tried that, Cas. It didn't work," Dean grumbled. They'd tried the instant they got back to the bunker, as soon as the angel had suggested it. All they'd pulled up were broken images, distorted and patchy, broken by the taser. Dean had resurfaced frustrated and disheartened, even though Castiel tried to point out that both his stress and the copious amount of whiskey he'd already consumed hadn't helped. Dean had seen it as a failure nonetheless and instructed the angel to concentrate on trying to contact Sam.

"I know it didn't work last time, but I still think it's worth another shot. Something could come up – I think last time you were so focused on trying to force it to work that it didn't," Cas explained. "I'll try to help you focus just on the events, not the emotions this time."

"Alright" Dean conceded. Cas moved around and sat in Jody's vacant chair and reached out a hand.

"Try to stay still," the angel instructed as he pressed both his middle and forefingers to both of Dean's temples. Dean's eyes snapped shut as light lanced through his mind's eye.

 _He felt the residue of annoyance flare through him as he stalked back to the room, prowling past a black SUV that towered over Baby. Damned teenagers. If they'd pranked a real agent, they'd be in so much trouble. He was sure they were probably hiding around a corner somewhere laughing at him. The damned woman in reception had ranted and raved at him about how despicable youths were for way too long._

 _Reaching their room, he opened the door, grumbling as he entered._

 _"Damned kids are nothin' but-"_

 _His head snapped up when a muffled yell interrupted him, his eyes widening, horror filling him. Sam lay bound and gagged on his bed, thrashing desperately. The shock was pushed to one side, allowing Dean to analyse what was in front of him: just his brother, his eyes wide but slightly unfocused, his large frame dominating the bed as he lay on his left hand side. They locked eyes before Sam's gaze slid to his left._

 _The memory of agony, entering through his shoulder, dropped him to his knees even though he couldn't feel it. His whole body went rigid as electricity sparked through him. He lay convulsing on the floor, locking eyes with a cold blue that glared down at him._

 _The memory seemed to pause, letting Dean see the man's face properly. His dark hair was short and neat, a well-trimmed beard peppering his cheeks, a few flecks of silver starting to filter in. Dean didn't recognise him._

 _Time sped up again._

 _"Dean Winchester. You took someone very dear to me. I'm going to be repay the favour" the man snarled, his lip curled in disdain. Dean frowned._

 _His accent: it was British._

Dean wrenched away from Cas' touch, his eyes wide, the angel mirroring his look.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean swore, his voice gruff and angry, bringing Jody running back in.

"What is it?" she asked.

"The guy – he had an accent. He's English."

"Dean, anyone can put on an accent, especially if they're tryin' to throw you off their trail. Is there _anythin'_ else you remember? Anythin' that could link him?" she pressed, folding her arms. Dean frowned, shaking his head.

"I can't think of anything…"

"What about the info the receptionist gave you?" Jody pushed. The conversation replayed quickly through Dean's mind. _Weird name…lovely guy…I just adored his accent; you don't get it a lot 'round these parts…weird name…Mr Wemmick._

"Wemmick. He said his name was Wemmick and she said he had an accent which fits," Dean shrugged. Jody's eyes snapped to him.

"Wemmick?"

"Yeah. Why?" Dean asked as Jody pulled out her phone. She typed quickly, her smile triumphant as she showed him the results.

"Wemmick is a character from Great Expectations. He's one of the good guys – he helps Pip when he gets to London. I'd say we've got a damned good chance he is British," she explained. Dean swore again as her look became quizzical. "But why would some random English guy take Sam? I thought the British Men of Letters were on our side."

"They are – supposedly," Dean growled as he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts. He looked up at Jody as he put the phone to his ear. "I think it's time they told us who else was involved with that bitch."

oOo

 _London, England: two months earlier_

 _Forty-eight days._

 _At least, he had assumed that's how long it'd been. He could never quite be sure; he hadn't seen daylight since he'd arrived. He used what he could; meal times, the regularity of Toni and James' visits. Thomas. Toni didn't want him to know how long it'd been since they'd taken him. Her 'sessions' (as she liked to call them) had become erratic of late; yet another way that she was messing with him. She would leave him alone for what felt like days, slowly building his anxiety, letting him simmer. Just when he'd think he couldn't take it anymore, she'd appear and he'd wish she was gone again._

 _He couldn't win._

 _Thomas was the only real constant he had. They barely spoke most days; the Man of Letters certainly didn't engage him in conversation but there was something…different about him. He wasn't malicious like Toni or psychopathic like James. He was almost…kind._

 _Sam had pleaded with him in the early days, tried desperately to form a comradery with the older man. He tried appealing to his compassion, his logical side. As much as Thomas demonstrated almost endless sympathy and patience, he never once hinted that he would help the Winchester escape._

 _Eventually, Sam stopped asking._

 _They fell into an awkwardly comfortable routine. Thomas would do whatever it was he needed to do – clean Sam up, restrain him, anything Toni wanted him to do, but he did it without the viciousness James took so much enjoyment in. In return, Sam would do as he asked without 'causing a scene' (as Thomas put it); if Thomas didn't hurt him, Sam wasn't about to encourage him to start. Toni did that enough._

 _"Why do you do it?" Sam asked quietly. He was sat, hunched over wearily, his elbows on his knees, on a hard metal chair as Thomas bustled around behind him. He stared down at his clenched hands, running a thumb over the abrasions that were almost becoming permanent on his wrists. A shiver rippled through his skin as the chill of the cell began to sink in despite the licks of fire that flared dully across his back. His shirt was gone, discarded on the floor next to the chair._

 _"This is going to sting. I'm sorry" Thomas murmured, ignoring the question. Water sloshed and tinkled in a basin as he wrung out a warm cloth. Sam hissed, his entire body tensing as Thomas dabbed at one of the long welts that ran diagonally across his shoulder blades. His hands clenched tight, nails digging in, as he fought the urge to arch his back forward and away from Thomas' tender ministrations. "I'm sorry, I know it hurts" Thomas repeated, his tone full of regret. Yet, it was regret for causing him pain, not for his involvement._

 _He never answered Sam's questions if they were to do with Toni or her actions. Sam still tried; he needed to know their reasoning. He wouldn't understand it, but he could use it. Thomas seemed to know that and so he never gave Sam anything._

 _Sam's sharp intakes of breath were the only sounds to disturb the silence while Thomas tended to the slashes across his back. His gentleness was a welcome comfort in a world that had become cold and cruel._

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

God, he had been so wrong. There was no comfort to be found in Thomas' care, no real compassion in the Englishman. There was a depravity in the older man that Sam could barely even begin to fathom. And yet…he hadn't lied. Sam was damned uncomfortable, frustrated and sick of being held captive, both then and now. But Thomas was right: he had never been violent with Sam, not in all the time he'd been in England.

The thought made Sam queasy; if Thomas was telling the truth, Sam was in way over his head. He couldn't believe Thomas – he wouldn't. He lay there, listening to Thomas incessant voice, repeating the same phrase over and over again, slowly becoming more and more numb. How was he supposed to fight this? What was he supposed to do?

He felt a slight tremor in the bedframe, signalling the door banging shut, and he twisted his wrists uncomfortably. Moments later, the headphones disappeared and the blindfold was lifted gently from his face. Sam looked up at Thomas from the corner of his eye, meeting the Englishman's look.

Thomas gave him a sympathetic smile, noting the utter defeat lodged in the depths of Sam's dull grey eyes. There was no fight in him, not today. That was good. It wouldn't last, but maybe, for today, Thomas didn't have to have a battle of wills. Honestly, it was proving exhausting on some days. It was a good thing he was a patient man.

"How is that shoulder feeling?" he asked softly, pulling the gag from Sam's mouth and dropping it on the table. Snapping on a pair of medical gloves, he leaned over, pealing back the tape holding the bandage in place. The wound glistened slightly in the light, still oozing plasma.

"It hurts," Sam murmured, lying still as Thomas inspected the wound. He pulled the whole bandage off, folding it and putting it to one side. Reaching for a white tube, he squeezed a generous amount of salve onto his fingers.

"This has a numbing agent in it. It should help. I can give you some over the counter tablets if you want them too" Thomas offered as he began to dab the salve onto the brand. Sam winced, hissing through his teeth. Thomas apologised but didn't stop, making sure that the whole wound was covered. "There. I'll redo it again in a few hours," Thomas remarked as he finished applying a new bandage. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"I know this is difficult, but we must stick to routine if we're going to get you back to normal," Thomas insisted, unscrewing a water bottle.

"If this is in my head, it doesn't matter," Sam replied, his voice monotonous, dead. He wasn't trying to start a fight; he was just stating fact. Thomas held the bottle out, helping Sam drink from it, tipping his chin up gently.

"You know better than that, Sam. Your mind believes this to be real and therefore everything in it is. It's about nourishing your subconscious. You can't fight Lucifer if you're weak," Thomas countered. Sam pulled away, swallowing and resting his head back on the pillow. He gazed up at the Englishman, finally feeling the fire in his shoulder begin to subside. Thomas reached for a bowl.

"Wait," Sam blurted out. Thomas paused, looking down at him. Sam locked eyes with him, his gaze defeated and full of strain. "Can you at least let me up? This isn't exactly comfortable. Please."

Satisfaction coursed through Thomas as he saw the pleading in Sam's look. It was genuine and Sam needed him. It was a moment he'd been waiting for.

"Of course, Sam," Thomas smiled down at him. The Man of Letters made short work of untying the Winchester, letting him sit on the bed this time with short chains linking his wrist cuffs to the belt at his waist. "Here" he offered the bowl to Sam, letting him finally have the freedom to feed himself. Sitting back on the wooden chair, he watched Sam, monitoring him closely. The Winchester sat up, his long legs stretched in front of him as he ate the soup silently. His shoulders sagged, his shortened hair still managing to fall forward into his face. He was entirely dejected.

"I want to help you through this, Sam. I know you don't believe it and I'm certain that's all part of Lucifer's plan. But I'm determined to help you see the truth. I'm going to make amends for what has happened to you and, together, we'll stop Lucifer.

"It's not going to be easy; I'm not disillusioned and you're going to get frustrated – even angry – with me. I understand and accept that. You might think I'm feeling the same way with you but I won't be. I need to be firm – as does Anna – and there could be times when you think we're being unfair. But everything we're doing is either to protect you or help you; I need you to remember that. I will do whatever I can to help prove this is all the Devil's doing, Sam. You can trust me."

Thomas voice was soft and persuasive, laced with a concern that wrapped its tendrils around Sam's mind. He used to be so good at reading people, working out who the liars were and what half-truths they were spouting. But that Sam was gone, replaced by one who was riddled with doubt and heartache. He wanted so desperately to be at home, to feel safe again. Confident, like he knew what the hell he was doing. He was so tired of being alone and thinking. Constantly thinking. Hell, what he would give just to have a few hours away from his own thoughts.

Sam broke from his reverie, passing the empty bowl back to Thomas. The Englishman took it wordlessly, gathering up the salve and bandages. A wave of desperation hit Sam so hard it nearly knocked the breath from him. Before he knew what he was doing, he was speaking.

"Please, could you stay? Just for a little while."

Thomas stopped, a wide grin lighting his features. He put the items back down on the table, seating himself back on the wooden chair, clearly delighted.

"Of course I can. Anything you want, Sam."

oOo

 **So I'm not an expert on the aftercare of branding, but I imagine it's quite similar to tattooing (which tends to ooze plasma for a while) so that's what I'm basing Thomas' care on.**

 **Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays from Angst Towers here in the UK!**

 **Please review!**


	15. Let the Games Begin

**Happy 2017!**

 **Thank you to everyone who is reading/reviewing/favouriting – I never thought this story was going to get this long or take the turns that it has!**

oOo

 **Westminster, London**

The evening was drawing closer, the dismal grey clouds dropping a fine drizzle – the kind that didn't seem heavy but soaked unassuming pedestrians to the bone – coating London in a darkness that was almost unnatural. Jonathan Markham, head of the British Men of Letters, sat at his huge cocobolo desk, the lights already on to chase away the impending gloom. He held a report in his hands, resting his wrists on the edge of the desk, deep grey eyes scanning the document. His teams were as efficient as ever, tackling the supernatural forces with skill and speed. Yet there were systems he wanted to change, that he _would_ change. Nothing could stay as it was before the discovery of Toni Bevell's activities. Markham had already been in meetings with many of his associates, trying to determine who had known, who had been involved. Ketch had been at his side throughout, proving to be a useful…persuasive device for those he thought might be less that forward with their knowledge. So far, he'd found nothing which was most aggravating.

His phone lit up, vibrating hard against the ornate wood of the desk. Frowning, he picked it up, the look dissipating when he saw the caller ID. He swiped and pressed it to his ear.

"Dean Winchester. Good to hear from you. How is Sam?" Markham greeted, leaning back in his chair, checking the time: 5:30pm in London meant it had to be around 11:30am in Lebanon.

"That's what I'd like to know," the hunter's reply was pure steel and it sent a cold shiver straight down the Englishman's spine. Markham sat up, saying nothing, unsure of how to respond. Not that Dean gave him time to. "You're meant to be on our side! That's what you told me when I left! And somehow now my brother is gone _again_ because of _you_!"

"Hang on a minute, Dean," Markham interjected, his eyebrows shooting straight up in surprise. "You need to go back a few steps because I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sam is gone. One of your guys took him and I wanna know who," Dean snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin. Markham swallowed his own frustrations; it wasn't going to help if his hackles rose too.

"Okay, Dean, I want to help you but to do that I need you to start from the beginning. I _am_ on your side, but I can't be useful if I don't know details," Markham answered slowly and clearly, keeping his voice calm. He heard murmurings on the other end, a soft female voice that sounded soothing. Dean exhaled, the sound heavy and exhausted. The Man of Letters listened as Dean began, explaining from the beginning, leaving out nothing.

The more Markham heard, the lower his stomach plummeted.

"He's been gone nearly a week and it's taken me this long to work out that the guy – or one of the guys – who took Sam is English. You told me Toni was dead," Dean finished, his tone softer and less accusatory than his words.

"She is, Dean; of that you can be assured. Lucifer was not…pleased that she let him down. However, she was succeeded by two residents of her household who we have been searching for: Thomas Maguire and Anna Bullard," Markham explained, his voice heavy.

"This Thomas guy, he about 5'10"? Dark hair, beard?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Jonathan replied, his heart sinking. "Thomas resided in Toni's residence, completing research with her and Anna was her housekeeper. We don't know the extent of their involvement, hence why we've been searching. I'm so sorry, Dean; if I thought Sam was in any danger from either of them, I would have contacted you immediately. I hope you believe that."

"Why would they take Sam? What's in it for them?"

"I don't know," Jonathan admitted, gazing at the gathering storm clouds outside the window. "My gut instinct would be that Anna had very little to do with Sam when he was here; Anna is very…traditional. While she knows about the Men of Letters – obviously – she is not a member and has very little to do with what we do. Thomas, on the other hand, is a member. He's also a retired doctor. When Jacob went to visit Toni, he saw Thomas attending to Sam. I imagine he was heavily involved. As to their plans now…I wouldn't like to hazard a guess for fear of being wrong. However, there is someone who might know."

"Who?" Dean barked, his voice urgent.

"James Ketch. He worked alongside both Toni and Thomas. He may know more than I can assume."

"Okay, so go ask him," Dean instructed.

"It's not quite that simple, Dean. It will take some time. Our reconditioning programme is…intense. I will send Mr Ketch straight away and will call you as soon as he has answers."

"Thanks." The line clicked off as Dean hung up and Markham sighed deeply, clenching his phone in his hand and holding it against his forehead. Yet again, guilt coursed through him. Sam Winchester was in danger again because, _yet again_ , the British Men of Letters had missed the signs. It was becoming too much of a regularity and Jonathan Markham would stamp it out.

Unclenching his fist, he searched for Ketch's number and dialled.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Sam lay on his side, head resting on his bent elbow, using his bicep as a pillow, his other hand curled up in front of him. He was simply lying there, breathing in and out, staring at the wall. His legs were curled up too, bent slightly at the knee beneath the thin blanket that covered him to just below his shoulders, a single chain snaking from a shackle around his ankle to the ring on the wall. A crisp white shirt covered the brand which had been dressed again. It was healing nicely, thanks to his ministrations. Thomas watched the hunter on the screen, pleased with the turn of events. He'd stayed with Sam for the rest of the afternoon, barely speaking but just being a comforting presence. Sam had surprised him by asking fewer questions about the information he'd levelled him with before. Why, Thomas didn't know. Perhaps Sam was still processing, still trying to wrap his head around everything that had been said. Yet the questions would come and Thomas had to be prepared, had to be convincing.

Sitting there, watching Sam, he was becoming less and less certain that he had _enough_ information to be wholly convincing. He needed more. He needed to get back to the Winchester's bunker. Sam was going to be probing and examining everything he said and if there was a single discrepancy then the whole plan could be jeopardised.

Thomas couldn't have that.

It was too soon for him to go though. Much too soon. He needed to prepare. Sam was vulnerable now, more so than perhaps he had been in a long time. And that made him dangerous. Oh, he was quiet now, cooperative, but Thomas knew him better than that. Now was the time that Thomas needed to tread carefully. That Sam was only secured by the single chain was a deliberate demonstration of trust. Well, not quite…trust. A test, definitely. Thomas sat back, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on their tips as he watched the screen thoughtfully. Sam was perfectly secure with the chain – he had nothing on him or near him that could be used to loosen it. Thomas wanted Sam to think he was getting softer, getting lax. He needed to see what Sam would do.

And he would be ready.

oOo

Sam lay on his side, resting his head on his bicep, thankful for the ability to lie in a position of his choosing. He desperately wanted to go running, to quell the storm raging through his mind. There was just too much flying through his head to allow him to concentrate on one strand at a time. He was trying, god, he was. Usually he would escape out of the bunker, running until his lungs burned and he couldn't think about anything but the road ahead. Only then could he start picking up the pieces one at a time, sorting and rationalising them until he had his answers. Thomas was never going to let him do that. For someone who had once been so active, the constant confinement, even by Dean when they'd got back – if they had in fact got back – was stifling him. The urge to just… _escape_ was so overwhelming. He didn't want to deal with any of this. He couldn't. If what Thomas had claimed was true was actually real, then what the hell was he supposed to do? If he was telling the truth (not that Sam believed him for a second), that would mean going back to a world without…

No.

He wasn't going to go there. He couldn't. Thomas was a liar so it wasn't even worth considering. And yet, Sam knew the Man of Letters was going to do anything and everything he could to convince Sam. Hell, there were going to be times when he was going to be more than convincing. Lucifer had been like that; one of his favourite games in the cage had been to made Sam believe that he'd escaped. It had taken years, even after the wall in his head had cracked and Cas fixed him, for him to truly believe that everything was actually real. Toni had solidified that truth; Lucifer wouldn't let someone else get the credit for torturing him.

But Sam needed Thomas to believe that he had won. Not outright – the older man would never fall for it. While Sam didn't want to admit it, Thomas knew him. Not the _real_ Sam Winchester, but certainly the husk who was constantly clinging to the edge of his control. If Sam made out that he was completely compliant straightaway, Thomas would suspect him. It was much too soon for that. He needed to prepare. Thomas had more control than perhaps he'd ever had over Sam. It made him ooze confidence but not arrogance – never arrogance with Thomas. And that made him dangerous. Oh, he was soothing now, comforting, but Sam knew him better than that. Now was the time that Sam needed to tread carefully. That Sam was only secured by the single chain was a deliberate demonstration of trust. Well, not quite…trust. A test, definitely. The hunter resisted the urge to roll over, knowing his shoulder would scream its protest, instead raising his hand to probe tentatively at the skin around the bandage. He stared at the wall thoughtfully. Sam wanted Thomas to think he was getting malleable, giving in. He needed to see what Thomas would do.

And he would be ready.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

"For the love of god, Dean, will you sit down?! You're drivin' me crazy," Jody huffed, levelling the oldest Winchester with an exasperated frown. Dean turned his glare on her but the look slowly fell, replaced by the hopeless frustration that felt like it was constantly gnawing at him these days. He needed to kill something, preferably this Thomas guy. The vision of his hands wrapped around the Englishman's throat was intensely satisfying, but not real enough to take the edge off. But god help the man when Dean _did_ find him; he was going to rip him apart and all that the waiting did was help Dean to get more inventive.

He dropped into one of the empty chairs, lacing his fingers together, thumbs twiddling over his stomach. He fixed his emerald stare on Jody, watching as she typed.

"What's on your mind?" Jody asked softly, her fingers continuing to click across the keyboard. She didn't need to look up to know that Dean was watching her, a barely contained rage flickering in the backs of his eyes. He'd been pacing ever since he'd hung up with Markham, wearing a dent into the library's floor. Jody had continued to work, exuding her own quiet confidence that, while it didn't dispel his anxiety, it helped to quell it.

"What if this Thomas guy is gonna try and sell out to Lucifer again? What if he's putting Sam through all… _that_ again?" Dean murmured, his voice rushing and then beginning to break as his hands clenched into fists. He locked eyes with Jody, his beginning to glisten. "Jody, what if he…I-I can't…"

" _Stop it,_ " Jody barked, her voice hard. "Do _not_ start doing that to yourself, Dean. It's not helpful and it won't get Sam back." His gaze dropped away. Her tone softened. "We don't know what he's planning; that's why we need to wait for Markham to call. But you listen to me, Dean Winchester, and you listen hard. Sam may have nearly given in before, but that would have been his last resort. He thought he'd lost everything. Even when the Devil confronted him, _Sam still said no._ Again. Sam is not gonna give in. He knows we're coming for him, that we won't stop til we get him back. He didn't know that when he was in England. He _will_ hold out, for as long as it takes. And then we will pick up the pieces. We _will_ put him back together and we'll do that for _as long as it takes_. Don't you go giving up on us. Sam needs you. I need you."

 _There ain't no me if there ain't no you._

The words echoed through his mind, pulled up from so long ago. He meant them then and they rang true now. Jody was right: it didn't matter who Thomas was or what his motive was.

Dean would get his brother back.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Sam stopped pacing when the door creaked open, letting a pool of weak sunlight in from above. He leaned forwards, trying to get a glimpse of the outside – not that it was going to be any help – before he stepped back, apprehension filling him when both Anna and Thomas descended. The memory of her last visit was vivid and unsettling – it was not an experience he wanted to repeat. He backed up, the chain scraping across the floor. Thomas smiled at him brightly, but there was a disdainful glint in Anna's eyes.

"Anna has come to work with you Sam, to help you," he declared, standing between the two of them. _Like the last time?_ Sam thought acrimoniously but bit back the words before they came out. He needed to play nice. She looked up at him, her brown eyes cold and challenging.

"Thank you," he choked out, the words sounding forced even in his own ears. Thomas' grin widened.

"Now Sam, if you wouldn't mind taking a seat on the bed, that would be helpful," he instructed as he walked over to the shelf opposite the bed. Sam eyed him warily as he sat down, pursing his lips and huffing through his nose when the Englishman approached him with a pair of handcuffs.

"Is that really necessary? I'm not going to try anything," he grumbled.

"It's a safety precaution only Sam – for you and Anna. As long as nothing happens, I'll remove them as soon as your session is finished. I think that's quite reasonable, don't you?" Thomas replied, keeping his voice smooth and calming. The whole scenario took him back to England, the same words, the same actions a replay in his memory. Sam answered by placing his hands behind his back, letting Thomas lock the cuffs around both wrists. They were neither tight nor loose: they were a symbol if nothing else. "Alright, I'm going to leave you both to it. I'll be back later," Thomas chirped, heading back to the door, leaving Sam and Anna silently standing off against each other.

Anna made the first move.

"Now, we're not going to have any repeat performances of last time, are we, Samuel?" she asked, her tone clipped and challenging. Sam met her eye and shook his head. She continued to eyeball him, waiting.

"No, we won't," he said quietly, fighting the anger that bubbled in his throat. It was going to be a long few hours. She smiled tightly, satisfied as she took a seat.

"I'm sure you have specific questions about Lucifer and your current predicament but those will have to wait for Thomas; answering them is not my role in this," she explained, folding her hands in her lap. Her whole demeanour reminded him of one of the doctors he'd experienced during his multiple visits to psychiatric wards. He wondered if she realised what she was doing; theoretically, if Thomas was telling the truth, she probably did.

"Thomas claims you're psychic and a spell caster," Sam remarked, his tone level.

"You don't believe him." It wasn't a question.

"I don't believe in most things without proof. I believe in research and seeing things for myself. It's nothing personal," Sam shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. Anna smiled, baring her teeth.

"Well, finally something we can agree on, Samuel. Perhaps you're more astute than I gave you credit for." He gave her a tight, livid smile, anger flashing in the depths of his eyes as he fought the urge to retaliate with his own sarcastic bite. "However, I am not a performing monkey, here for your amusement. Whether you believe it or not is quite irrelevant because this is all happening regardless. You and your brother followed your father for many years without questioning him…too much."

"You don't know anything about my father," Sam growled, his fists clenching behind his back, unseen by Anna.

"I know that he was far from happy that you constantly undermined him, particularly before you went to Stanford. Funnily enough, I think I can empathise with him," Anna replied, her tone remaining the same even though her eyes goaded him.

"It wasn't as simple as that," Sam murmured, forcing his hands to relax, his shoulders to lower. The throbbing in his shoulder blade flared.

"No? You continued to do so even after you left college. You were prepared to jeopardise getting the Colt and potentially let a nest of vampires hurt innocent people just so you could waste time arguing about control with him. You only stopped because Dean made you."

Sam's eyes widened, a jolt running cold down his spine.

 _You're the one who said don't come back, Dad! You're the one who closed that door – not me!_

"How could you possibly know about that?" he whispered, horrified.

oOo

"Excellent, Anna," Thomas praised, watching the screen on the laptop excitedly. The colour drained noticeably from Sam's face, leaving him unsettled. The hunter hadn't expected that.

 _"That's what a psychic usually does, Samuel. You should know that."_ Anna's voice was soft and reprimanding, the kind of tone used to scold a student who had forgotten the easiest answer in the test. Thomas flicked through the bookmarked pages of John Winchester's journal. He stopped on a page and skimmed it quickly. He brought the small microphone up to his mouth again.

"He disobeyed John on that vampire hunt – John was angry with them even though they saved his life after he got ambushed," he paraphrased, noting the barely perceptible nod from Anna as she received the information. The tiny earpiece had been a stroke of genius. Together, they could outfox Sam with little issue.

oOo

"Granted there were times when he was…I suppose… _pleased_ with you. If you hadn't rushed in when those vampires ambushed your father, he probably would've died. He was still livid because you didn't listen."

She couldn't know any of this. Hell, he'd forgotten half of it, barely thinking about it properly for years. Sam stared at her uneasily, uncertainty filling him. He didn't know how to retort; he hated the idea that this cold, heartless woman knew anything about him. That she knew things about his past, about his family, was just…sickening.

He set his jaw, averting his eyes and said nothing, willing himself not to rise.

"Of course, your disobedience has got you into trouble plenty of times in the past. However, for once, it seems that doing as you're told has got you into trouble this time."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Those feelings you have, that _desperation_ to flee, to get back to your brother, that is what you're meant to want. You're doing exactly as Lucifer tells you and you don't even realise it. He's got his hooks in you so deep that you can't even see it," she sneered, reaching down into the bag she'd brought with her.

"That's what _you_ say. Even if – and that's a pretty big if – you were right, you have no idea what it's like to have Lucifer riding you. You don't just 'say no'." Sam muttered, sending a soft sideways glare in her direction.

"I'm not here to have philosophical debates with you, Samuel," Anna replied, sliding her finger into the book on her lap and opening it, pulling the black ribbon from its centre. "Anyway, enough chatter. Once all this is over, you are expected to return to…playing your part."

"You mean hunting."

"No. You are a legacy not a neanderthal. And what separates them? Knowledge. We must continue your _proper_ education so that you can continue to be a useful and eventually become a full member of the Men of Letters. I trust you have no problem with the continuation of James I's account on demonology?" she asked politely, a malicious glint in her eye behind her tight smile. The warning was unspoken but clear. Sam wanted to throttle her. He wanted to wrap his hands around her skinny neck and squeeze until the sadistic light vanished from her eyes.

Instead, he bared his teeth in a parody of a smile, eyes flashing with frustration.

"Whatever you say."

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The phone rang, its vibration harsh and loud against the wooden table top. Dean pounced on it, relieved to see Jonathan Markham's name came up on the caller ID. He pressed accept and put the it on the table top, Jody and Castiel sliding their chairs in closer.

"You're on speakerphone; what you got?" Dean greeted, skipping past the niceties; the moment's pause before Markham answered showing it had caught him off guard.

"Nothing good, I'm afraid," the Englishman replied, his tone grave. Dean felt his heart drop, but Jody's hand squeezed his shoulder, radiating calm. "The likelihood is that it _is_ Thomas Maguire so that is a positive in that we at least know who we're looking for."

"Okay, but who the hell is this guy and what does he want with Sam?" Dean demanded.

"Thomas is – was – a Man of Letters," Jonathan began.

"You don't consider him one anymore?" Jody asked, her brows furrowed.

"Not after all this, no. The Maguires are one of the longstanding families within our chapter – just like the Winchesters were until Abbadon wiped out the American one – and Thomas is the last of his line. He was the resident physician, amongst his other duties, for many years but he stepped down completely a year ago after we'd modified his role about three years ago. We were becoming increasingly concerned with his mental state at the time."

"In what way?" Cas asked.

"He became…obsessive."

"With what?" Dean questioned.

"With vessels," Jonathan said. "Do you recall when the angels fell after you attempted to close the gates to both heaven and hell? At the time, the UK saw a peak in supernatural activity – the same as America – thanks to the fallen angels and their hunt for suitable vessels. Thomas had a younger brother – Phillip – who he doted on. Phillip thought it would be…beneficial for the Men of Letters to gain inside knowledge into what had happened and how it had occurred."

"Don't tell me: he invited an angel in," Dean predicted, clenching his jaws.

"Exactly that. Obviously it was not sanctioned by myself or anyone else in the chapter; Thomas didn't even know until it was too late. Phillip was…unable to contain the angel he let in."

Dean and Castiel both winced visibly.

"What does that mean?" Jody asked, looking from the hunter to the angel.

"Contrary to popular belief, not all humans are adequate vessels; not all are strong enough to hold an angel's essence. When the angels fell, there were many cases of humans saying yes and then, well, exploding," Cas explained. Jody paled.

"Wish I hadn't asked," she mumbled. "So did Thomas' brother…y'know…"

"He was killed, yes," Markham confirmed. "Thomas didn't take it well; he was very close to his brother. They'd worked together for many years and their family was very close-knit. Thomas changed at that point; he almost went rogue, which, in our chapter, is taken particularly seriously. He was obsessed at first with finding the angel and demanding he reverse what had happened. Of course, he never found the angel and so turned his attentions to finding out about the specifics of physiology behind vessels – specifically why Phillip hadn't been compatible. I still don't understand what he was hoping to gain from it."

"How did that make him 'about to go rogue'?" Dean asked.

"He wanted to…study those who had been or were possessed. Angel, demon, it didn't matter to him. Either way, human experimentation's absolutely out of the question. I only found out what he was planning when one of his closest friends came to me."

"Let me guess: Toni," Dean growled.

"Yes. He'd become blind to the ethics of it. She had seen what Phillip's death had done to Thomas and she offered to help divert Thomas' attentions, to bring him onto her research instead. She was researching you both, continuing to monitor you. Looking back, I think she knew that his fixation on vessels would be invaluable for Sam and Lucifer. While he hadn't go to the stage of experimentation, he had gained an impressive understanding of vessels through other research. I imagine she felt he would be useful when preparing Sam for Lucifer."

Dean's hands clenched.

"Thomas quickly became enthralled with the research he was helping her with – I was happy as it gave him direction – focus away from the death of his brother," Jonathan continued. "He requested to step down from his duties as physician, which I agreed to as long as he trained his replacement. It was the obvious move as there was so much work to do when Amara was released that it made sense for Thomas to concentrate on his work with Toni. That work was pivotal. He had moved into her residence a couple of years ago; again that's not unusual within our chapter. But I should've seen it. Looking back, Toni had already begun her plans even back then and Thomas became her first accomplice. I should've known that his obsession wouldn't go – instead it just redirected itself. At some stage during Sam's captivity, his fixation on vessels must have become personal, evolving into his obsession with Sam. Maybe it was because Sam is _the_ vessel, but, having met Sam, I would imagine that Thomas saw a reflection of Phillip in your brother. His need to…protect, to perhaps make amends for what happened to Phillip could well be the driving force here."

"Fantastic," Dean snarled, rage filling him. Theoretically, he should be able to empathise with a guy who'd lost his brother. But for that guy to then take Sam? His anger flared and he fought to keep his cool as Markham spoke.

"I didn't know, Dean," Markham replied quietly, apologetically. "They were both still Men of Letters and the research they were producing was first class. That they were master manipulators is as much a surprise to me as it was to you.

"From what Mr Ketch could get out of James, Thomas' primary role with Sam was his physical care. He was never there when Toni was…with Sam, but he would help James to prepare him and tend to your brother's needs afterwards. James implied that the longer it went on, the more attached to Sam Thomas got. You've seen what James is like; he would have had no issue being ruthless with Sam, but Thomas apparently intervened a lot of the time. James found it…frustrating."

Bile rose in Dean's throat as his fists balled tightly, his nails digging in. The thought of some nut job thinking he was _helping_ his baby brother in his own warped way made him want to hurl. The thought that the same guy had Sam again…

His stomach turned almost painfully.

"So what's his motive? What is he hoping to do?" Castiel asked, helping Dean to refocus.

"That I don't know."

"Is he likely to try and get Sam to say yes to Lucifer again?" Jody asked, the question hanging like lead in the air. Dean hadn't realised he'd stopped breathing until Jody nudged him.

"I can't categorically say no, but I will say that I think it's less likely," Jonathan replied, his voice troubled. "Lucifer killed Toni and Thomas was very close to her, as was Anna. I doubt Thomas would want him to have what he wants – which is Sam. Giving Sam to Lucifer would also mean that Thomas would lose Sam too which is too close to what happened to Phillip – even though he knows Sam would survive. In his own bizarre way, he probably, at least, _thinks_ he cares for Sam and therefore wouldn't want to hurt him. Thomas has never been a violent man – not like James. But it does leave us with the dilemma of working out what he is actually planning and where he is."

"Yeah, so far we've got nadda," Dean huffed, rubbing a hand back through his hair.

"I'd like to send Mr Ketch to help," Markham offered, rushing when he heard Dean about to interrupt. "Ketch is methodical and damned good at his job. He will be invaluable, I can assure you. We want to help, Dean. We allowed this to happen and we must help put it right."

Dean hated the idea. He had his friends, his family, the people he trusted on his side and adding some cold, emotionless stranger felt more like a hindrance than a help. But when he looked to Jody, she nodded.

"That'd be appreciated. Thanks," she answered for him.

"Good. I will send him straight away. I'll arrange for him to get to you by tomorrow morning. If you need anything else in the meantime, do contact me," Markham offered.

"Thanks. We'll be in touch," Dean replied, hanging up. He slumped in his chair, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

"Well, we know more than we did," Jody remarked, downing the dregs of her coffee.

"Yeah, not that it helps us find Sam."

"That's not necessarily true, Dean," Cas intervened. "Understanding motive is usually the key factor in finding the unsub."

"You've been watchin' Criminal Minds again, haven't you?" Dean asked, one eyebrow rising. Cas looked at him sheepishly.

"Cas is right though," Jody replied, "the more we know about him as a person, the more we can get in his head and try to work out what he's gonna do. It's the most information we've had to work with in days."

"Yeah I know," Dean murmured, staring down at his phone. He wished it would ring, wished Sam's name would pop up and hated that it was just wishful thinking. "But it _is_ worse than we thought. Takin' Sam's one thing, but havin' him taken by someone who's obsessed with him? That's way worse. We all know what obsession makes people capable of."

Visions of his own obsessions raced through his mind, most recently Amara. He'd wanted her so badly…and had resisted through sheer force of will. Thomas didn't need to resist; he had the object of his 'desire'. The thought left Dean cold.

Things just seemed to be getting worse and the harder they tried to rectify them, the more messed up it got. Dean locked eyes with Jody, his expression grim.

"We need to end this soon, Jody. If we don't, we might never get Sammy back."

oOo

 **Please review!**


	16. Break Away

**Sorry it's taken so long – January is a bitch of a month! I hope this makes up for it!**

oOo

 _"Tonight I start the fire,_

 _Tonight, I break away."_

 _\- Break, Three Days Grace_

oOo

The cellar was quiet again and, for the first time in a while, Sam was truly thankful for the peace. He'd endured Anna's company with as much grace as he could muster, barely containing his frustration throughout most of it. It was only Anna's sly glances towards the shelf that made him bite his tongue, almost literally, at several points. Her warning was clear: be nice or suffer for it. He didn't plan on giving her more ammunition. The sight of Thomas' sickening enthusiasm and his gushing praise when he came back down was enough to make Sam's stomach turn. He wasn't even sure anymore if the Englishman was intentionally trying to be patronising or if it was just a normal state of being for him.

After changing the bandage on his shoulder and removing the handcuffs, the pair had left him alone with his food and his thoughts. The dull throb of his injured shoulder served as a constant reminder that something deeper was wrong. He didn't want to believe Thomas, couldn't fathom how he'd supposedly done it to himself, but, try as he might to recall it, the memory of that night remained patchy and elusive. He remembered Thomas and Anna, a few snippets of what was said, but none of it was threatening. It was all Thomas' brand of 'comfort'. He'd been on a hard surface – it could've been the bed – and he'd been held down. That wasn't unusual. As much as he wanted to, Sam couldn't link the branding _to_ Thomas through his memory and that was concerning.

The idea of having done it himself wasn't as farfetched as he wanted to believe either. It was certainly something he would have been able to do back when his psychic abilities were active. Yet, they'd been dormant for years and there was no reason for them to have flared up again.

There had to be another reason; Thomas _had_ to have done something. Sam just couldn't figure out what.

The small glimpse he'd got of the injury hadn't revealed much of anything; it was a strange symbol – probably Enochian – and resembled the weird necklace which had since disappeared. Sam hadn't seen the symbol before, but he'd guessed it's use: blocking angels. He'd prayed to Cas almost routinely since being in the cellar and he'd expected the angel to appear in his dreams to at least let him know what the hell was happening. Yet his mind had been quiet. The only thing that had changed was that mark's appearance.

His heart thumped when the door opened again. Thomas' heavy footfalls announced his arrival. The Englishman smiled genially at the hunter who backed up, easing himself down onto the edge of the bed. Thomas' eyes skimmed over the empty plate, satisfaction flashing across his face as he sat in the wooden chair.

"Anna said you made good progress this morning," he remarked, meeting Sam's drawn gaze.

"What is that mark?" Sam asked, ignoring Thomas' comment. He watched a glimmer of annoyance shadow through Thomas' eyes but it was gone in an instant.

"I think you've already guessed its Enochian. It's designed to block angels," Thomas replied, his tone level. Sam blinked, surprised; he didn't expect Thomas to admit that. "Do you know why I gave it to you on a necklace?"

"No." Of course he did; Thomas didn't want him contacting Castiel. That was the only reason he forced the necklace on him.

"To protect you, Sam." Thomas insisted. The hunter fought the urge to laugh. He was so sick of hearing that. "It blocks Lucifer – he is still an angel, after all. He cannot directly influence you if you're wearing it. That's why I gave it to you. Did you know its use before? Had you seen the symbol in the bunker?"

He'd done so much research over the years in the bunker, seen hundreds of sigils. There was no way he could remember seeing it or not.

"I don't know," Sam murmured uneasily.

"I think that mark is the first step in your…awakening, Sam. I think it's your subconscious trying to block Lucifer. You _knew_ , deep down, what the necklace did and this is your mind trying to protect itself from him," Thomas explained, his look earnest, open.

"If that was the case, the necklace would've been enough," Sam countered.

"Necklaces can be lost. Removed." Thomas retorted softly. Logically. Doubt gnawed at Sam's gut and he had to work to push it down. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't. But Thomas needed to believe he might.

Sam swallowed.

"Are you sure?" he asked. Thomas frowned, confused. "That it blocks Lucifer? A lot of things that work for 'regular' angels don't for him."

He was questioning; that was good. It meant that doubt had been planted. That's all he needed right now; outright compliance would come later. Thomas kept his expression carefully concerned, keeping his pleasure carefully hidden.

"I did a lot of research into Lucifer – even before your time with me in London. We needed something that could keep you safe in case things took a turn for the worse. I'm almost completely positive that it will, but, as with all things, there is never a 100% certainty. I won't lie to you and say there is."

If only Sam truly understood how much he actually did care. Eventually he would, but, even now, Thomas could see the reluctance in Sam's mannerisms that spoke mistrust in volumes. It would be fine. They would get past this stage – it was only a short amount of time in the grand scheme of things – and then they would have everything they wanted for the rest of their lives.

If only they could get there quicker.

Sam watched Thomas carefully, observing the gleam in his eye, the twitch in his cheek where a smile threatened but was squashed down. He was _enjoying_ this. Playing the _saviour_ , being the _hero_. It didn't seem to matter to him that his view of both of those things was entirely warped, deluded. The hunter willed himself not to clench his fists. _Play along, get his trust._

"Anna knew things. About me," he said softly, lowering his eyes. The feeling of…violation still burned in his chest. He almost wished that Thomas was the one who was supposedly psychic. Better him than her at any rate. Thomas smiled briefly.

"I know, Sam."

"Do you?"

"I know the things she tells me. If we think it will help you, she reveals it. I know this is difficult and you feel like we're invading your privacy, but how else are we going to help you realise what's truly going on? We can't send you out, get you to try and confront Lucifer. He won't fall for that – you're supposed to think he's gone. I'm sure he's somewhere in this fabrication, watching you. I just haven't found out who he is yet. I'm working on it though," Thomas explained. Sam said nothing, instead staring down at his hands, running his thumbs over the callouses on his palms. Thomas sighed and rose. "Do you need anything?"

"No."

Thomas nodded and left, grinning as he went.

Sam heard the door close, but relief didn't come with Thomas' absence. He'd confirmed Sam's fears and tension thrummed through him, snapping up and down his spine relentlessly. Contacting Castiel had been his only hope of getting through the Dean without using traditional methods. There was no way he was going to get hold of a phone. His heart pounded; he _needed_ to burn off the tension – he couldn't think straight.

Pulling off his shirt, he put it beside him before sliding off the bed and onto the floor where he lay flat against the cold concrete surface. Curling his toes under him, he placed his hands just past the width of his shoulders, fingers pointed forwards. Even before he lifted up, he knew it was going to be murder on his shoulder, yet he welcomed the first ripple of pain that coursed through the brand as he pushed up. He grimaced as his muscles contracted beneath it, moving the healing skin. Adjusting his position slightly, the hunter started a series of repetitions, taking care to not overstress the brand. While the pain would eventually dull and he could learn to ignore it, he didn't want to aggravate Thomas; the last thing he needed was to be secured to the damned bed again.

Settling into a rhythm, Sam concentrated on his movements, letting everything else slip away.

oOo

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Thomas grumbled, his tone exasperated. Anna peered around the kitchen door at him, a wooden ladle in one hand.

"What's the matter?"

Thomas gestured to the computer monitor with one hand. "He's doing push ups. That's going to upset his shoulder. I can't have that." He made to rise as Anna came over peering at the image.

"Wait, Thomas," she replied, resting a hand on his shoulder. The Englishman looked up at her. "Let him be. He is a physical person; I imagine he's finding his residence in the cellar difficult because of that very fact. I'm sure his shoulder does hurt, but he's also probably used to high levels of pain and looking after a variety of ailments. If Sam feels he can do this, let him. Apart from anything, I think this gives you a perfect opportunity to break him."

"How so?" Thomas asked, noting her malicious smile.

"Sam needs to know that he's here to stay, despite anything he tries. That exercise is adding to the fact that he needs a shower; he hasn't had a proper one since he's been here. Bring him up to the house, let him clean up, feel like we're giving him more freedom and then we can see just what he'll do. It'll go one of two ways: he'll cooperate and do as he's told or he'll try to escape. We can be prepared for either eventuality."

"Anna that's a splendid idea!" Thomas grinned up at her, placing his hand over hers where it still rested on his shoulder. He gave it an affectionate squeeze. "I'll make the necessary preparations."

oOo

The hunter was sprawled on his stomach across the bed, his face half-buried in his pillow, one arm tucked underneath it. His breathing was even and gentle, the rise and fall of his shoulders rhythmic and calm. After not exercising for days, his bout of push ups had left him spent. Poor lad. He'd done well over a hundred, more than Thomas thought he would be able to given his condition. And yet, Sam was a stubborn one; he would do what he wanted to do regardless of whether his body was feeling up to it. He was so exhausted that he hadn't even heard Thomas come down. It was almost a shame to wake him, given how peaceful he looked.

"Sam?" Thomas called, reaching out and brushing the loose locks of hair and tucking them behind Sam's ear. The hunter stirred groggily as his hand moved down, giving Sam's uninjured shoulder a small shake.

"Dean?" he mumbled, ire darting through Thomas. He bit back the hiss of annoyance that flashed through him. Sam's bleary eyes eased open groggily, blinking. Recognition, along with disgust, flicked through his gaze before he could mask it. It was fine – soon that look would be squashed, gone for good.

"You're sleeping the day away," Thomas chided softly as Sam moved away from his touch and hauled himself up. _Not like there's anything else to do,_ Sam thought bitterly. His body ached already and it had only been a few hours since he'd pushed himself. Swinging his body around, he planted his feet on the floor, running a hand back through his hair. "Lift up your shirt," Thomas instructed, moving around so that he was on Sam's injured side. The hunter complied, pulling one arm out of his shirt so that Thomas could reach the bandage. He felt the adhesive tug at his skin. The Englishman clucked his tongue behind him, flaring up his annoyance once again. "You need to be careful, Sam. Those push ups have cracked the scabs. Reopening the wounds will take it longer to heal and we can't have that."

"It feels fine," Sam replied through clenched teeth. He felt Thomas press the tape back down again.

"That it may, but that doesn't mean it's good for you," Thomas remarked, tugging Sam's shirt back down. "Now, I will redress that but in a little while. I thought you might appreciate a shower."

Sam looked at him, stunned. Thomas smiled at him.

"Well unless you've remodelled down here while I was asleep…"

"You need to go to the house," Thomas confirmed. Sam's look turned suspicious. "Obviously, there are rules. What I'm suggesting is dangerous – for you and me – but I'm prepared to take that risk if you are."

The urge to roll his eyes was almost overwhelming, but Sam took a breath and asked the question, even though he already knew the answer.

"What rules?"

"You're still a flight-risk, Sam, no matter how much I want to trust you to do the right thing. Therefore you will need to be restrained at least from here to the house. That's completely non-negotiable," Thomas answered, his tone firm and unwavering. "We will go directly there and back again with no fuss. You'll have a limited time in the bathroom and then we'll come straight back down here. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Sam murmured, keeping his demeanour subservient, calm. Thomas smiled and nodded.

"Good. Let's get ready then; put your shoes on."

The Englishman moved over to the shelf, picking up a mess of silver links. He advanced on Sam who stood up obediently, turning his back on Thomas and presenting his wrists. The links clinked and rattled as Thomas unravelled them. Cold metal caught each of his wrists, holding them securely against the small of his back. He felt something tug on his wrists as a long loose chain swung down against his legs. The long chain was attached to cuffs which circled around his ankles, one above the shackle that already held his left leg, leaving enough slack for him to walk. Thomas walked around him, threading a separate chain around his waist, securing his wrists to his torso and padlocking it at the front. The older man reached into his pocket.

"Open up," he instructed, holding the knotted cloth. Sam jerked back, glaring.

"Really?" he asked incredulously. Thomas frowned.

"You agreed to the rules, Sam and this is part of the description. Your choice," Thomas challenged, fixing Sam with his no-nonsense look. He hated this. Hated it beyond measure as Thomas moved around him and he complied, grunting when the knot slid between his teeth and was tied securely at the back of his neck. "Good," Thomas praised quietly as he stooped and undid the shackle that was attached to the wall. "Let's go."

Thomas grasped the chain around Sam's torso, giving him a gentle tug. Sam moved forwards, taking short steps, nearly half his usual stride. His heart began to thump, anticipation spreading through him. They advanced to the steps where Thomas stopped him again, pulling out the blindfold once more. Sam eyed him furiously, for once almost glad he couldn't speak; it stopped him saying something that would've jeopardised the whole exercise.

"Just another precaution; you don't need to know where we are. I'll take it off when we're in the house. I'll keep you safe on the way, Sam," Thomas soothed as he shielded Sam's eyes. Sam huffed, flinching when Thomas tugged again, telling him when to step, guiding him up.

A warm breeze, that was starting to edge towards cool, ruffled his hair and slid across his bare arms, wrapping around him, calming him. Judging by the way it was warm not hot, he pegged it as early evening, the sun already starting to set. The ground was compacted and uneven beneath his feet: a lawn. Even though he couldn't see, the feeling of being outside again after being contained in the stifling cellar for so many days was overwhelming. The hunter stopped momentarily, just wanting to enjoy the feel of everything. Thomas' hand tugged on his chain.

How could this not be real? How could it be in his head?

 _Your mind can take you wherever you want to go, Sam. Don't lose that gift._ Mr Wyatt's words echoed in his mind. The English teacher had loved what he'd seen as Sam's 'fiction', praising his ability to create such vivid description. Maybe it was possible.

That wasn't a comforting thought.

"Sam." Thomas' voice was coloured with warning, but, since he had no way to communicate the fact that he just wanted to enjoy being outside, Sam forced his feet forward. The Englishman guided him carefully while Sam counted his steps, all the while straining his ears to glean any information he could.

To his left, he caught the whisperings of the breeze gliding through trees; it wasn't close but there was definitely a wooded area nearby. There was a single bird singing brightly, it's chirps shrill but colourful. Sam frowned, trying to place the species. It sounded a lot like a western meadowlark. If that was the case, he was most likely near farmland; the lack of vehicular noise also confirmed it. It wasn't summer anymore – the meadowlark tended to head to the northern states to breed – so it was again likely that they were somewhere in the mid-states. Which were the biggest farming states? Based on the drive from Mason City, which had taken over six hours, they had to have gone west if he was hearing that bird; the closest states that farmed being Nebraska or Kansas. _You're like a walking encyclopaedia of weirdness._ The memory brought a degree of warmth with its resurfacing. While it was true, it wasn't enough to help him yet, but the fact that he could calculate even a rough position put a small part of the Winchester at ease.

He wasn't useless; he could get out of this.

"Three steps," Thomas stated. Sam made it up without issue, hearing the way the sound of his footfalls changed. His boots clumped against wood which groaned under his weight; the veranda was old. Another four short steps and he heard a door open. The breeze died as he crossed the threshold into the house, the door closing with a soft click followed by the clunk of the lock behind him. It had been about fifty steps, probably about twenty-five if he'd been able to walk with his normal stride. They had walked in near enough a straight line, pegging the cellar at about sixty feet from the house.

The blindfold was loosened and removed, Sam blinking as the artificial lights hit his pupils. He looked around, noting that they were stood in an open hall, stairs in front of him and large open doorways on either side. It was clearly the entrance to the house; the cellar had to be based in the front garden. All the windows were obscured by curtains even though it couldn't have been fully dark yet.

"Come on then," Thomas chided, giving the chain another tug.

"Mmph!" Sam groaned, looking down at Thomas expectantly.

"Oh, sorry," Thomas said, reaching up to tug the gag from his mouth. It fell around Sam's neck, the Englishman not bothering to undo it yet. The hunter followed Thomas up the stairs, looking around as they went. It had a real farmhouse feel to it – wooden cladding and beams splitting up the otherwise whitewashed walls and ceiling, the furniture old-fashioned and rustic. The room to the left of the front door had been the living room, another doorway leading out on the other side – probably to the kitchen. The room to the right had looked like a dining room, also with another doorway leading out the back. Farmhouses typically had huge kitchens; this one most likely took up the whole of the back of the ground floor. There would undoubtedly be a back door from there.

The stairs creaked and whined as they ascended and turned right on the landing. A quick glance to the left revealed two doors: potentially bedrooms. The door in front of the stairs was most likely a cupboard. Sam absorbed all of it, storing the information; he needed a clear idea of the layout.

Thomas pushed open a door on the left, flicking the light on and leading Sam into a spacious, and surprisingly modern, bathroom. Everything was a bright white, from the walls to the floor and the bath. An impressive mahogany counter top lined one wall, two sinks integrated into its surface with cupboard space lining the whole thing. A shower cubicle was set into the corner beside the window which looked like it was boarded up. Shuttered – from the outside, Sam realised.

"As you can see," Thomas began, finally letting go of Sam, before walking across to the window. He opened it and rattled the shutter. It didn't budge. "It's padlocked from the outside. The cupboards have had everything sharp, pointed or heavy removed." He moved across the room, demonstrating as he talked before pointing at a small collection of bottles. "The essentials you need are on the side there. Your clothes are in the end cupboard. Now, I'm going to remove your wrist restraints so that you can shower, but, once you've removed your trousers, the ankle cuffs will go back on. You may cover yourself with a towel. We'll repeat the procedure when you need to dress again. The door will be locked from the outside and I will be waiting on the other side. You have twenty minutes before I will come back in. Is that clear?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. He'd expected nothing else, although the ankle cuffs staying on was a frustrating turn. Thomas set to work undoing the locks, the chains falling away from Sam's torso and wrists. He pulled his shirt off, wincing slightly as it jostled his shoulder. He yanked the cloth from around his neck while the cuff was removed from his left leg. Grabbing a towel, Sam wrapped it around his waist before pulling off the pyjama pants and his boxers. The cuff was reapplied but removed from the chain attaching it to the wrist cuffs before Thomas removed the bandage from his shoulder.

"Don't put your shirt back on until I come back in – I want to redress that first," Thomas instructed, placing it in the bin. "Right, you've got twenty minutes. Knock if you finish earlier."

With that, the Englishman left, closing the door behind him. The lock clunked and Sam was finally alone. The hunter breathed a sigh of relief. Shuffling over to the shower, he turned it on. He might as well use the opportunity while it was presented to him; Thomas would be suspicious if he didn't hear the water. Letting it heat up, he relieved himself before moving over to the sideboard, pulling open the cupboards, checking them again. Of course, the things he could've really used – razor blades, tweezers, bleach – were missing. He could always squirt shampoo in Thomas' eye. He snorted at the thought. Spying a small tub of cotton swabs, he smiled slyly and grabbed one, placing it on the countertop. Steam was beginning to roll out of the shower cubicle, filling the room. Removing the towel, he draped it on the rail next to the shower and climbed in under the water.

And moaned with relief.

The water was hot and powerful, drenching him completely, battering against the tense muscles in his back. He kept his face out of the stream – he still couldn't face plunging his head underwater thanks to Toni – but slicked his hair back with his hands. Grabbing the shampoo, he lathered it in vigorously, glad to finally start feeling clean. The white suds slid down over his toned chest, running in rivulets towards the floor. His shoulder stung but it wasn't unbearable. He used the shower gel generously, scrubbing at his skin, wishing that he was scrubbing Thomas out of his head.

oOo

Thomas sat on a stool outside of the bathroom, his back against the wall. He listened to the sound of the water running, a small smile on his face.

"Anything yet, Thomas?" Anna asked, appearing from one of the bedrooms, closing the door quietly behind her.

"No, not yet," Thomas replied. "I left the ankle cuffs on him so I'm not expecting him to try anything until we're on our way back to the cellar. I'll deliberately leave the door unlocked then and see what he does."

"Do be careful," Anna remarked, her stern brows knitting in concern. "I know you want to trust him, but I don't, Thomas. Remember the gun is near the front door if you need it."

"It will all be fine, Anna; don't you worry."

oOo

It was over too quickly, but Sam didn't have time to waste. He'd climbed out of the shower, leaving it running before drying himself off, listening to the muffled exchange through the door. So Thomas _did_ expect him to try something – just not yet. Good. He could catch the Man of Letters off-guard. He'd known the offer of the shower had seemed a bit too convenient. Yet he wasn't sure why Thomas was taking the risk. It didn't really matter – what did was that Thomas had wholly underestimated him.

That was all Sam needed.

Picking up the cotton swab, he pulled the fluff from the end, exposing the sharp plastic underneath. Perfect. Sitting down on the toilet lid, he bent forward, sticking the plastic into the lock on his ankle cuffs. His expert fingers wriggled it around, making short work of picking the locks on both cuffs. He left the chain pooled on the floor, his feet padding silently across the tiles as he turned the shower off and pulled the clean clothes from inside the cupboard. He wanted jeans and something warm, but had no such luck: more white pyjama pants, socks and a matching t-shirt. Sam dressed quickly, pulling his boots on.

He bent down and grabbed the chain, grasping it between both hands. The hunter stood still, visualising what he'd seen of the house. The bathroom door opened inwards: he needed to allow for that. Once he'd incapacitated Thomas, he'd have to get down the stairs – theoretically he should go out the front door, but it was locked. Thomas probably had the keys on him, so checking his pockets was a must. Anna was somewhere, but she wasn't a problem: she wasn't a fighter and weighed probably a hundred pounds soaking wet. If she was armed…well, Sam had no issue disarming her. She deserved it.

Plan B?

If he couldn't get the keys, he'd head through the dining room to the kitchen – less obstacles than the living room. He'd grab the gun Anna mentioned on the way. What about outside? If he was right and it was a farm, the likelihood was that the car was parked around the front. Again, if Thomas had the keys, he'd grab them. If he didn't, he'd leave the car – it was brand new, most likely fitted with immobilisers and a keyless system; he wouldn't have time to waste trying to get the thing started. Running would be his best option. He'd head towards the trees he'd heard earlier, find cover before planning his next move.

Wrapping the chain around his right knuckle, Sam breathed deeply, exhaling slowly. He was ready. Standing in the centre of the room, he waited. Listening.

"Sam? Time's up. I'm coming in," Thomas called through the door.

"Okay," Sam replied, aware that his voice sounded far enough away from the door to not raise suspicion. He ran silently to the door, gripping the handle with his left hand, raising his balled right fist.

The lock clicked.

The door handle depressed under his loose grip and the door edged open. Sam yanked, hard. Thomas stumbled in, his eyes widening in surprise before Sam's fist connected with his nose, the chain making a sickening crunching sound. The Englishman fell back, hands flying to his face as Sam shot forwards, unlooping the chain from his knuckles and stretching it between his hands. Surging forwards, he caught the chain around the back of Thomas' neck, kneeing him in the groin, forcing him to drop his hands unconsciously. Sam crossed the chain over in front of him, tightening it around Thomas' neck. The older man's eyes bulged, his mouth gaping as he tried to draw in a breath, the blood from his nose running into his mouth. His hands beat at Sam's arms, trying desperately to get him to loosen his grip.

Sam tightened it.

Slowly, Thomas' struggles weakened as he fell to his knees before Sam, his arms dropping to his sides, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Sam let go, keeping a firm hold of the chain but removing it from Thomas' neck. The Englishman slumped onto his side, unresponsive. Sam reached into his jacket pockets, searching for his keys and his phone. Neither was there.

Cursing, Sam stood up and raced down the hall, heading for the stairs. He bounded down them two at a time, skidding to a stop at the bottom. He listened and heard nothing. Where was Anna? It didn't matter. He grabbed the front door handle and yanked. Locked. The key wasn't there. Looking around wildly, the hunter searched for the gun Anna had mentioned. It wasn't there either. Alarm bells rang in his head, but he ignored them. Turning, he sprinted through the dining room, barrelling into the empty kitchen. The back door was on the opposite wall as he expected. He started towards the kitchen drawers, hissing in annoyance when he saw padlocks on all of them. He wasn't getting a weapon from them. It was fine – he still had the chain. Backpedalling, he got to the back door, yanking on it but it didn't budge. He swore again, swinging back around towards the other room. Running through, he yanked open the heavy curtains that concealed the window. Outside, the world was beginning to blacken as night set in. Backing up, Sam grabbed one of the high-backed dining chairs, lifting it and hurling it at the window. The glass exploded, shattered pieces flying out into the darkness. Sam climbed up and out, landing with a thump on the veranda.

Running around to the front of the house, his feet slammed against the wooden boards. Before him, the front lawn stretched out, surrounded by a makeshift wooden fence, a dirt drive placed to the left. The BMW sat facing away from the house. He left it – he didn't have the keys.

Taking in his surroundings, he saw the dark outline of trees off to the right. Clearing the three steps down to the ground, Sam raced forwards, vaulting over the small garden fence. Legs thumping, heart pounding, the Winchester ran fast, putting as much distance between himself and the house as he could.

His freedom was so close.

oOo

 **So, do we think Sammy is out of the woods yet? ;)**


	17. Collateral Damage

" _If you want to get out alive, run for your life."_

 _\- Get Out Alive, Three Days Grace_

oOo

Anna watched him as Sam raced away, her frown creasing into her forehead. Looking down, she scanned over the piece of paper Thomas had given her. The flicker of the firelight scorched across the page before she folded it and put it in her jacket pocket. Picking up a small vial of a deep purple liquid, she slowly began to pour it over the mess of crackling leaves and twigs that sat in the ornate bowl over the open flame.

" _Et ignis consumet,_ " she intoned, watching the mess of foliage catch alight, burning a vibrant green, flames shooting up momentarily before dying down. Perhaps there was more to the Men of Letters' mumbo jumbo that she had anticipated. She hoped it did whatever Thomas was expecting it to. She hadn't envisaged needing to do it at all; Thomas had instructed her that afternoon to wait outside with it, around the back of the house, and only finish the spell if she saw Sam leave without him.

Hurrying around to the back door, she let herself in to go and find Thomas, concern rising within her.

oOo

His lungs were on fire, but Sam didn't stop. The ground disappeared beneath his feet as they devoured the distance, taking him away from the house. Ahead, the trees loomed, tall and protective. To his right, Sam could see the open expanse of fields but the darkness was setting in too quickly, cloaking the horizon. The view to his left was the same, but the driveway led that way; that was where the road was going to be. Entering the small copse, Sam dodged a thin branch that nearly caught his cheek, stumbling over the roots as he dove forwards. The wind rustled the leaves around him, twigs cracking beneath his feet. Looking up, he veered to the left, grabbing a low branch and swinging himself up. The Winchester climbed with ease up into the tree, settling himself on a wide branch a good fifteen feet off the ground.

He stopped, letting himself breathe.

Running a hand back through his damp hair, Sam forced his breathing to even out and slow, sucking in air through his nose and exhaling through his mouth as he calmed the adrenaline sparking through his veins. Straining his ears, he listened for sounds of pursuit. There was nothing except the rustling around him. From his position, Sam couldn't see the house – at least that meant they couldn't see him either. Not that he could stay here long; when Thomas woke, this copse would be the first place he'd look. Sam had been predictable, but he hadn't had the time, information or resources to be anything else.

Regaining his breath, Sam felt his heart begin to slow, letting him think clearly. Again, predictable though it was, he _had_ to make for the road. There would be hundreds of miles of farmland out here and he could walk for days without seeing another soul. If he found the road, he could make for a town or try to grab a lift. Hell, if he could flag down a car, he could borrow their phone, get through to Dean. Hear his voice. God, he wanted to hear Dean's voice.

 _Sam._

The hunter's head whipped around, wet hair plastering to his cheek, as he looked for the source of the voice. There was no one there. He shook his head, scowling. Wishful thinking playing tricks on him. Hadn't he suffered enough?

Clenching his jaw, Sam swung down out of the tree, moving with a quiet grace. He landed softly, stopping, listening. Still nothing. Turning on his heel, he jogged through the dim copse, having to take extra care as the light failed.

 _Where are you going?_

The voice echoed again and Sam skidded to a halt, glancing around him. What the hell was going on? He was absolutely sure he was alone. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he moved again, dodging around trees.

oOo

"This is _completely_ unacceptable," Anna hissed, her eyes flashing fire as she gently washed the blood from Thomas' face.

"Anna, it's alright. I expected him to lash out," Thomas replied, his voice thin and rasping. He winced as the warm water met the cut across the bridge of his nose.

"You never said a broken nose was a part of the plan," she grumbled as she worked. She'd found him at the top of the stairs covered in his own blood. He'd wanted to go straight after Sam, but she'd assured him that she'd done as he asked. They needed time for it to work anyway so sparing a few minutes to clean him up wasn't going to hurt. So he let her mother him, knowing that he would catch up to Sam soon.

oOo

Sam cried out, falling into a tree when light slammed through his mind. He grasped the sides of his head, gasping as images clouded his vision. Images of a world burning. Cities on fires, the flames raging up towards the darkening sky. People screamed and monsters roared, the noise deafening.

As soon as they had appeared, they went.

The dark copse came back into view, Sam's eyes wide and horrified. His breath was ragged, raking up his throat in short spurts. He blinked several times, brushing a shaking hand across his face. Now was not the time to be losing it! Not when he was so close to getting away. Pushing away from the tree with one hand, Sam stumbled on, making it out of the clearing.

Darkness had set in completely now, the shapes of the world lit with silver edges from the rising moon. Sam looked around, trying to get his bearings. Over to his left, he could see the faint glimmer of lights: it had to be the farmhouse. With that behind him, he should press forwards. Keeping a steady pace, he jogged on, aware that the ground beneath his feet was uneven. The last thing he needed was a twisted ankle when Thomas was probably on the move already.

A woman's face, terrified, horror filling her eyes as she stared pleadingly up at him, swamped his vision, driving the hunter to his knees.

" _Please don't. Please,"_ she whimpered, her hands scrabbling against the ones that were wrapped around her neck. Sam bent over into a ball, hands over his ears, eyes screwed shut as he rode through the vision. He watched the hands tighten, her screams choking in her throat as the light died in her eyes.

Shaking his head violently, her face vanished. Getting to his feet, he ran again, the desperation within him rising. Something was wrong. Really, really wrong. He'd never seen that woman before, let alone strangled her!

He pushed forward, making his legs work. He had to get to the road. Had to get to Dean.

oOo

Thomas pulled the polo-neck sweater on over his shirt, carefully avoiding his face. It had been a long time since anyone had clocked him in the nose; he'd forgotten how painful it was. He'd expected the punch, but not the chain wrapped around Sam's knuckles. The lad was resourceful, he'd give him that. He'd known that anyway and a small part of him was pleased.

Looking in the mirror, he pulled down the sweater's neck, revealing the ugly purplish bruises that already crisscrossed over his skin. It hurt, physically, but he couldn't blame Sam. It was fear and uncertainty that made him lash out – not Sam himself. Never Sam. His Sam would never actually try to kill him. He knew, deep down, just how much Thomas cared for him.

Thomas had counted on that very idea and his faith had been rewarded.

He left his bedroom and made his way downstairs, heading into the dining room. He frowned at the shattered window, Anna on the outside sweeping up the broken glass. He would need to get that fixed in the morning. He'd expected Sam to pick the locks, but it would seem brute force had won that argument.

Walking over to the desk in the corner, he unlocked the drawers, pulling out his laptop and switching it on. It booted almost instantaneously and he clicked on one of the icons on the desktop. Wandering over to the destroyed window, he looked out.

"I'll call the repair company in the morning once Sam is safe again," he remarked, typing in his password. Anna nodded and looked up at him, her mouth downturned.

"How are you going to find him? He must be long gone by now."

Thomas smiled and turned the screen to face her. A bird's eye map of the surrounding area had taken over the whole screen, a small yellow dot moving towards the nearest road, heading east.

"I drilled a hole into the bottom of Sam's boot and put a tracker inside while he slept. It tracks him to within a five feet radius."

"As clever as always," Anna smiled, sweeping up the remaining shards. "Go on then. I know it's getting late, but the last thing you really want is for him to come across some kind soul on the road who'll give him a lift or let him use their phone."

oOo

Sam dropped to the ground, hunkering down behind a short fence post, making himself as small as possible. The car sped past him, making his heart thump. He didn't dare sneak a look to see if it was Thomas or not; he was too close to the house still to risk jumping out at unknown cars. Knowing his luck, he'd flag one down just for it to be his captor. Either that or that was the only car he was going to see for the rest of the night. He hated ifs and maybes. Yet, there wasn't any point dwelling on it; he needed to move forwards.

Hauling himself up, Sam climbed the wooden fence, nearly toppling over the other side when another round of images pierced inside his head. He caught himself at the last second, fighting to push the images out as he stepped onto the hard asphalt.

oOo

Thomas glanced at the open laptop in the passenger seat beside him, watching the small yellow dot disappear behind him. Sam had made it onto the road and was following him – just as he'd predicted. To head west would mean going past the driveway up to the farm: Sam was smarter than that. His eyes swept over the dash's clock before staring out at the empty stretch of road. 8.04pm. It wasn't a particularly busy stretch of road; he'd spent a few evenings down near the farm's entrance counting the number of vehicles that went past. It was useful information to know.

He would go on for a few more miles: let Sam wear himself out with the hike and the visions which were likely to be wreaking havoc with him by now. Thomas wasn't too worried about cars travelling in the same direction as him; Sam wasn't likely to trust them, thinking they'd be Thomas. His instinct would be to hide. Instead, he'd be more inclined to try and flag down one going the other way.

Thomas would make sure that didn't happen.

oOo

Despite the chill that hung in the air, Sam was sweating profusely. He trudged along the broad stretch of asphalt, his arms wrapped around his torso, holding himself together as he warded off the sights and sounds that rose up unbidden and unwanted in his mind. Most he seemed to be able to stifle enough to keep walking, others seared through with such burning intensity that they crippled him, plunging him to his knees.

They were all of a similar vein: the world was burning.

The hunter didn't recognise any of it though – not the people and not the places. He didn't know how that was even possible. Figuring it out wasn't the priority; getting to safety was. Dean would fix it. His big brother always fixed it. He just needed to _get_ to Dean.

Sam hadn't seen another car since the one he'd hidden from earlier but that wasn't really surprising; he was in the middle of farming country. Traffic wasn't always a given. Hell, he and Dean had driven down numerous roads without seeing another vehicle for miles. He'd already decided to hide from any that came up behind him, just in case. Without a watch or much else to go on, the hunter had no idea how long he'd actually been walking for. His progress was slower than he'd like with the headaches hounding him, but he'd been going for a while – probably nearly an hour and a half, maybe a bit over. The farmhouse should be a good four or five miles behind him by now. Maybe Thomas was still unconscious, maybe he'd gone the other way. While he couldn't be sure, the thought was a comforting one.

Something caught his eye up ahead.

His fight or flight reflex kicked in, adrenaline surging even though his steps slowed. He squinted in the dark. There was a faint light – sat off to the right, away from the road by a few feet. It wasn't bright enough – or high enough – to be a house. What was it? He kept his pace measured, sticking to the edge of the road where he could bolt into the fields on his left if he needed to.

Another round of images battered the inside of his head, forcing him to stop and curl in on himself, clutching at his head.

"Not now, not now," he winced, mumbling over and over to himself, screwing his eyes shut. The pile of burning bodies faded from view slowly, painfully. Exhausted, Sam straightened up, stumbling onwards.

Getting closer, he began to pick out the details in the dark. Two dim lights shone bleakly, static, point forwards, illuminating a small patch of green. They were rectangular and stood around chest height. Finally, it clicked.

It was a car.

Sam kept his feet cautious as he advanced, ears straining for any signs of life or noise. He couldn't hear anything but a soft clicking sound the closer he got to the car. In the dark, the outside became more apparent and Sam started to jog. The vehicle had flipped over; it was resting on its roof. Something had run it off the road. Alarm bells went off in his head, but he ignored them. Sam waited until he was close enough to see that it wasn't a BMW before sprinting over. He slid to a stop by the driver's door, arm on the car's frame as he bent down to look in the window.

"Hey! Dude, you okay?" he asked, seeing the outline of a person but it was too dark. Grabbing the door handle, Sam yanked, hard, the door screeching under the force as it opened. The interior light flickered on, revealing carnage. The airbags had blown, the white material now deflated and sagging down towards the roof of the car. Fragments of glass were strewn around from the shattered windshield. A man hung upside down from his seat, eyes closed, blood dripping from several lacerations crisscrossing his face. Sam knelt down next to him. "Can you hear me?" he called, pressing his fingers against the man's neck.

Nothing.

"Goddammit." Sam hissed, his shoulders sagging. He looked over his shoulder at the road, wondering what would've caused the guy to swerve that hard. It wasn't uncommon for deer to be in farmland areas; one on the road would've been enough to scare him into jerking the wheel. Particularly if he was distracted on his phone…

His phone!

Sam's heart nearly leapt into his mouth as his head shot back around. He looked at the centre console; it was hi-tech enough to have a Bluetooth system so he probably didn't even need to get his phone out. Stifling the desire to apologise, Sam reached in, searching the man's pockets.

And hit the jackpot.

He pulled out the guy's phone, his hands shaking. Pressing the centre button lit it up in the darkness but it was locked. Looking at the man's hands, Sam grasped his right gently and pressed his thumb to the button, unlocking it. His heart beat hard.

He punched in Dean's number with trembling thumbs and hit call, lifting the phone to his ear, praying with everything he had that Dean picked up.

It rang.

"What?" Dean's harsh tone snapped down the line. Sam near sobbed with relief.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

"Dean?"

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck shot straight up as he bolted upright, back ramrod straight, eyes wide, mouth open.

"Sammy?!" he asked, incredulously. Jody and Cas' heads both snapped up and both were around the table in an instant. Dean heard his brother's sob and it broke his heart, his own eyes welling. "Are you okay?!"

"Yeah – no – I don't know," Sam's reply was broken and tinny down the line. "I'm not hurt but my head…"

"It's okay, Sammy, listen to me," Dean interrupted, his tone soothing but serious. He motioned at Jody to grab him a pen. "I need you to tell me where you are."

"I don't know. I found this car on the side of a road – the guy's dead but I've got his phone. I don't know what happened. It's not safe, Dean; I don't know how close Thomas is. He was with me in England. He worked with Toni."

"It's alright, Sam, take it easy. We know about Thomas – we've got the Brits comin' to help. But I need you to focus and help me find you. What's the guy's licence plate?" Dean calmed him as he held the pen poised. He listened as Sam moved, his breathing heavy and uneven.

"116-PHG, Kansas – AL. Allen County?"

"That's great, Sam. What can you see?" Dean prompted gently, scribbling down the plate information. He fought his own panic and desperation, keeping it together for his brother. Sam needed him.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

He crept forward, light as air on his toes, using the light from the overturned car to guide him. He'd been forced to stow the BMW further down the road and jog back, surprised to see Sam already at the crash site. The man was a regrettable casualty; he'd only meant to force him off the road, not get him to flip over completely. If he was alive, Thomas would call for help anonymously later – after Sam was safe.

He prowled forward, stalking closer, watching Sam intently as the hunter moved around the car. Thomas bit back his annoyance – he was on the phone! To who was predictable.

Dean.

Thomas' fist clenched around the cloth in his hand. Sam's voice floated through the air, panicked and rushed but his back remained to Thomas.

"Farmland. I can't see anything – no lights in the distance, nothing. I was on a farm – in a storm cellar. Shit, Dean, they branded me," he choked out, falling to his knees.

 _Perfect._

Thomas drew closer, raising his hand, getting ready. He slowed his feet, measuring each step, gauging Sam's movements, calculating constantly. It had to be timed just right. Sam knelt there, listening to Dean as Thomas began to loom over him, casting a protective shadow in the moonlight.

"It's some kind of Enochian sigil. It blocks angels which is why –"

Thomas had him.

He hooked the damp cloth around Sam's mouth and nose, cutting him off, slipping his other arm around Sam's torso, holding him tight, pulling him back into his embrace. The phone fell from his hand as he thrashed, trying to reach Thomas' hand and pull it from his face but he couldn't get close enough. Dean's frantic shouts echoed up through the darkness, lost beneath the stifled shouts and moans from Sam as he jerked his head, but Thomas just pulled him closer, cradling him against his chest.

"Shhhh, it's alright, Sam. I've got you. There's nothing to worry about," Thomas crooned, tightening his hold as the hunter bucked and writhed. His struggling began to lessen, body loosening slowly as the choloform took hold. Thomas rested his chin on the top of Sam's head as he kept the cloth in place for a few moments more, making sure that he was completely out of it. Sam slouched back against him, his breathing deep and even. Thomas took the cloth away, sticking it back in his pocket. He shifted position, kneeling down and picking up the discarded phone, Dean's shouts still screaming through the speaker. He cradled Sam back against his chest, the hunter's head lolling onto his shoulder, Thomas' cheek resting against his forehead as he brought the phone up to his ear.

"Dean, honestly, do you always make such a racket?" he huffed, annoyed. His voice was raspy and strained. The shouting turned to silence as he caught Dean off-guard.

"Thomas." Dean snarled. The Englishman blinked, surprised.

"You've been doing your homework. Good for you."

"Listen to me, you piece of shit, you let Sam go _now_ and maybe I'll let you die quickly. I don't care what you want. Either you let my brother go or I'm gonna get real creative when I find you," Dean growled. Thomas smiled, eyes glinting in the dark as he gazed down at his ward.

"You poor misguided soul, Dean. Of course I'm not going to let him go. I'm what Sam needs now. I'm the one who will guide him. He's mine and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it," Thomas replied, his croaky tone laced with joyful confidence as he hung up, leaving the older Winchester hanging.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

"Woah!" Jody shouted, pitching forward when Dean's arm raised, his phone clasped in his hand. She grabbed his arm, wrapping hers around the tense bicep that was about to hurl the object across the room. "We need that, honey; we need the number that called you," she murmured, prising his fingers open to save the device. The Winchester's hand loosened, letting her take it as he lurched to his feet.

"GOD DAMMIT!" he bellowed, picking up the closest chair and smashing it into one of the long bookcases that lined the library walls. He howled and raged his anger, booting over another bookcase, raining destruction through the library.

"Dean, stop!" Castiel came up behind him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Dean turned and swung, catching the angel across the jaw with his fist. Cas' head snapped to the side but he was unfazed by the blow, grabbing Dean's other shoulder and looking him square in the eyes. Eyes that were narrowed and full of anger, pain and frustration, guilt flicking through when he met Cas' look and the rage began to quell. Cas gave him a grim nod, answering the unspoken apology. "It's alright. You're allowed to be angry, but we need to focus – use this time effectively."

"Castiel is right," Jody interrupted, rubbing a warm, comforting hand across the hunter's back. "Sam managed to get away –"

"He took him again –"

"I know, sweetheart, but that means we have a window of time where Sam _was_ free. We need to focus on that, Dean. Maybe someone saw him, maybe he left a trace somewhere. We need to find that to find him. It's more than we've had in days and we need to focus on that. We'll start with the phone and the number plate."

"The phone's no good," Dean mumbled, taking his phone gently from her hand and bringing up his call list. He showed it to her. Jody frowned. "We can't track an unknown number. Whoever's phone it was, they didn't use it for personal calls."

Once again, Jody gently plucked it from his fingers and gave him a hard, reassuring smile.

"Then we'll track the car. Sam got us that much and the plates will be real. It's _something_ and we need to get to work on it."

"Did he say anything else?" Cas asked, his eyes narrowing slightly at the pain that flashed through Dean's. The Winchester swallowed visibly.

"He said they'd branded him."

Jody and Cas stood in stunned silence. Jody's expression twisted into one of horror, speaking volumes on its own.

"Sweet Mary Joseph," she whispered. Dean screwed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, controlling the waves that tried to pull him under.

"He said it was Enochian. That it blocked angels. He started sayin' somethin' else but he got cut off." _Taken. Again._

Cas frowned.

"That must be why I haven't been able to get through to him. I'll start looking for it in the archives – see if I can narrow it down and see what they used. I might be able to find a way around it," he explained, walking off to the cataloguing section.

"Hey." Jody gave Dean's arm a squeeze. He looked down at her. "Do you know what the most important thing you got from that conversation was?"

Dean frowned, confused. He shook his head and she smiled fiercely.

"Sam's still fightin'. He hasn't given up and he knows we're looking for him. Hold on to that."

oOo

 **You guys know me too well! =D**

 **Please review!**


	18. Weight of the World: Part One

**So this is now part 1 of 2 chapters: it grew exponentially throughout the week until it reached 13,000 words…oops? On the plus side, the next update will be pretty quick since it's already written.**

 **Prepare yourselves for Uber Sammy Angst!**

 **Enjoy!**

oOo

" _They'd never understand:_

 _That I don't do this for pleasure,_

 _I just do it 'cause I can."_

 _\- Father's Son, 3 Doors Down_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Everything ached.

That was the first thing he noticed as awareness began to crawl back through him. Surfacing was hard – a thick fog cloaked his head, filling it with an uncomfortable cotton wool fug. He was so _tired;_ he wanted nothing more than to fall back into the oblivion, but consciousness was nagging him, stopping him from falling back into the comfort of the void.

Why was he so tired?

Trying to piece together what he'd done before he'd fallen asleep was proving impossible: he'd grasp a fragment, try to make it fit but it would disintegrate as soon as he pushed. The more he tried, the more exhausted he was. A slow feeling of panic began to bubble softly in the far recesses of his mind. Something had happened. Something that sucked anything positive he felt away, tossing it into the empty.

Eventually, real feeling crept back into his skin around his aching muscles as the prone hunter slowly regained movement in his extremities. Only to find that they didn't work.

Sam's head jerked up away from the hard mattress, his eyes snapping open, only to be met with darkness. Panic tightened his throat as his memories suddenly bombarded him, crashing in full force through his mind. The shower, running to the copse, the images, the car, calling Dean…

" _Sammy?! Are you okay?"_

A sob welled in his chest as Dean's voice echoed in his head. He'd been so relieved, so completely relieved and then…

Thomas.

Sam tried to straighten up but could only wriggle. He focused his attention on what was stopping him. His wrists were bound tightly behind his back, palms pressed together, the rope soft but immovable. When he tried tugging his arms, it pulled at his stomach – another length secured his hands to his torso, rendering them useless. His legs were bent up, his heels nearly brushing his fingertips. His ankles were lashed together and tied to his wrists, pinning him down in an unyielding hogtie. He could feel yet more rope above and below his knees, anchoring his legs together.

"You put us all in danger, Sam." Thomas' voice made him jump. Sam turned towards his voice but couldn't see anything. He became aware of the familiar tightness around his eyes. Despair: absolute, numbing, consuming, filled him.

He'd never get another shot. He'd failed.

"I did what I needed to do," he whispered, trying to find the fire he'd felt before but it was gone. There was no bite in his words. He couldn't manage it.

"It was reckless and who knows what would have happened if I hadn't found you," Thomas reprimanded him, his tone exasperated yet full of concern. "You could have drawn Lucifer here. Contacting Dean? A sure mistake – of course Lucifer is going to be watching your version of Dean. I had to get you back quickly – I won't apologise for drugging you. It was the safest method." As he spoke, Sam heard the chair groan as Thomas got up, followed by metal tinkling against metal. He shifted uneasily.

"Nor will I apologise for your restraints. I told you that poor decisions would be punished. This is what running back to the devil brings you," Thomas remarked. A warm hand pressed against his forehead, pulling his head back as something hard – and horribly familiar – was forced into his mouth. He whimpered pleadingly, thrashing as the silicone bulb filled his mouth, stifling him. Thomas' hand disappeared from his forehead, catching one of the leather straps as he pulled the supple material back, covering Sam's lips and further muting his incoherent moans of despair. He heard the metal buckle clink behind his head before Thomas pulled sharply and cinched it off. Sam shook his head, trying to flex his jaw, howling forlornly when he couldn't loosen the vile gag at all. He squirmed around, trying to move onto his side, but felt Thomas push him back and another rope snake over his back. It tightened, anchoring him to the bed. "I don't want you falling off and hurting yourself. Now, you're going to think about everything that happened, including the visions you saw–"

"Mmph?!"

"Yes, I know what you saw Sam. You know what they really showed you if you think about it. We'll talk about it when I think you're ready – not beforehand," Thomas said, his hand slipping through the locks of Sam's hair, soothing him. The hunter moaned, dropping his head onto the mattress, twisting his hands and tugging at his ankles uselessly, fighting the anguish that was building inside him as he breathed heavily through his nose. The bed lifted as Thomas got up, his footsteps fading before the door clunked shut.

Alone in the darkness, Sam fell apart.

oOo

"You just can't trust people these days; it's awful."

"Oh absolutely. We just couldn't believe it; being this far out, we'd assume that we'd be safe from the likes of vandals and thieves. Although a part of me was glad that it happened while we're staying here – I'd have hated for the owner to discover it when they got back from their holiday," Thomas agreed, his tone conciliatory. The window repairmen had arrived later that afternoon, taking one look at the gaping hole and shaking their heads. Thomas' tale of woe over a band of thieves smashing it whilst he and Anna had been out to dinner the night before had them shaking their heads in disgust. That they'd returned home and, when he confronted them, attacked him, breaking his nose explained the ugly black bruise that had spread over his nose and under his eyes. When he told them how Anna was afraid to sleep in her own bed, they scowled. Thomas won their trust as easily as breathing. They would never suspect a thing.

"Don't you worry; it'll be good as new and just in time too," the lead workman replied, his brawny arms crossed as he squinted up at the sky. The afternoon had got darker and more forbidding as it drew on, thick clouds that had taken on a sickly greenish hue which suffocated the sky, deadening the atmosphere. It was unusually quiet and still. Had it been winter, Thomas would've suspected snow.

"Oh?"

"Tornado's comin'," the guy nodded up at the sky. Thomas looked up and frowned.

"How do you know?"

"A feelin'. Nine times outta ten I'm right. See those clouds? Way too low for normal clouds and they've got that weird green look. The owner showed you where your storm cellar is, right?" he asked.

"Yes, he did. Do you think we'll need to use it?" Thomas asked, keeping his face interested and polite. The repairman looked at him, stunned and then laughed.

"I guess you don't get a lotta storms in England, huh?"

"Not tornadoes, no. Just a lot of rain," Thomas smiled sheepishly.

"Okay, so we're get tornadoes pretty regular round these parts – you've been lucky _not_ seein' one yet. Keep your radio or TV on tonight. Or there's a load of apps you can download on your phone these days. Warnings come quick 'cause the tornado comes quicker. You get the warning – you get straight down in that cellar, y'hear? No way you're gonna outrun those winds. It might last a few seconds, might last an hour. If we're lucky, there'll be one or two. If not…well, I'd make sure you've got enough down there to see you through the night."

A shiver ran down Thomas' spine. If what he said was true, then it was perfect: just what Thomas needed. And it would bring Sam that little bit closer to him too. He nearly sighed in contentment, but reined himself in.

The Englishman smiled appreciatively up at the workman just as the rest finished fitting the window.

"Thank you for that. You have no idea how much I appreciate it."

oOo

 **Carlyle, Kansas**

Dean couldn't wait for the moment when frustration, disappointment and heartache weren't on the menu all day every day. He longed for the quiet moments when he and Sam would sit on the hood of the Impala, somewhere near a waterfront, sipping beers and just...being.

When this was all over, that was exactly what they'd do.

He just needed to find Sam first.

Dressed in his usual green jacket and jeans, the older Winchester hadn't cared about grabbing his fed threads and changing when he charged up to Carlyle. It had taken Jody no time at all to track down the license plate number for Don Tupper, Carlyle, Kansas.

They'd arrived in the middle of the night, the drive taking a little over three and a half hours (speed limits were hardly high on Dean's list of concerns and Jody let him be), stopping over, ironically, at the Crossroads Motel. A quick sweep past Tupper's darkened house revealed that no one was home. Begrudgingly, Dean had agreed to go back to the motel, knowing that there wasn't anything he could do until morning.

Now, he'd visited the neighbours, trying to ascertain who Don Tupper was. North Kentucky Street was a quiet rural cul-de-sac situated away from the main road, surrounded by lush tree lines and wide open fields. The houses were spread apart, sat alone in their small patches of well-tended land. Some were littered with an array of brightly coloured children's toys, others were precisely manicured lawns. Don Tupper's was unassuming: average in every way. The house remained dark which he had expected; if Tupper had been in an accident, he wasn't going to miraculously appear.

"Such a shame, really. Lovely woman is our Alison," Mrs Watkins trilled, blinking up at Dean owlishly through thick lenses. He stood on her front porch as she rocked herself with her toes on her porch swing, both hands grasping the top of a worn cane. "She just couldn't face the endless days alone. Not what she agreed to when she married Don. All the travel, you see. He was never home."

"Is he on a business trip now?"

"When isn't he? He comes home every now and then but never for more than a few days. I go over, make sure Alison's roses get watered. They'd have died long ago if I'd left them to him to do," the old woman replied, clearly exasperated by Don's lack of horticultural skills.

"I suppose you don't know where he's gone do you?" He didn't know why he asked; he already knew the answer.

Mrs Watkins shook her head. "I'm sorry. I rarely see him long enough to have a conversation."

"Thanks anyway, ma'am," he smiled and hopped down the stairs, finishing his keys from his pocket. As the door screeched open, his phone went off. His heart skipped a beat, hoping it would be Sam, knowing it wouldn't be.

"Anythin'?" Jody asked when he put it to his ear.

"Guy works a lot – away on business. None of the neighbours know where he's meant to be; they rarely see him," Dean huffed, sliding into the Impala.

"We'll track him through his work then. If we can find out where he was goin', maybe we can work out the route he'd have taken," Jody suggested.

"Good idea. I'll be there in ten."

Above him, the clouds grew heavier, turning a gruesome shade of green. Dean's mouth pressed into a hard line. He'd worry about the storm later.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Anna sat quietly in one of the rigid armchairs, her ankles crossed delicately, her knees together. She was the image of a true lady: the perfect posture, poise and grace all combined to show her natural elegance. She sat watching the TV, the volume high enough to be heard, but not intrusive. Her eyes watched the news with interest, the channel set to the BBC World Service so that she could follow the events of home while her fingers worked effortlessly, a crotchet hook snagging and pulling at the royal blue yarn ball that sat in her lap. It was in these quiet moments that Thomas truly appreciated her; she was obviously missing England (not that she would ever vocalise such a feeling) and she had given up a lot to accompany him on his mission to save Sam even though she hadn't believed in what he was doing. He would make it up to her when they got back to England. He would show her that her faith in him would be rewarded.

The Englishman's eyes flicked back to the laptop screen, eyes alighting on Sam who was squirming around yet again, fighting against his penance. That he was uncomfortable was completely understandable – hogties aren't known for their comfort – but he had to learn that violence and escape attempts were not going to be tolerated. His ward would think twice before considering either again. The occasional stifled moans that drifted through the speakers, sounding a lot like his name being called, made him so…content. Sam was beginning to realise how much he needed Thomas.

How Thomas was his only salvation.

Thomas would release him soon and Sam's relief, his gratitude, would be instantaneous, even possibly overwhelming, towards him. The whole debacle of the previous night had to have shattered Sam's defences. He would find out how much when they eventually discussed the images Sam had seen. The fear he'd heard in Sam's whimper when he'd mentioned them before leaving that morning confirmed that his spell had worked exactly as he'd intended it to. Of course, they weren't going to be discussing it yet. Sam would have to wait for the privilege of having his voice back.

Turning back to John Winchester's journal, he continued reading, a contented smile hovering on his lips. It had been a productive day; the window was fixed and he'd managed to hack into Don Tupper's work records, changing a few…minor details about his latest business trip. Dean would undoubtedly look into the owner of the license plate which Sam had given him. Changing his destination for his business trip had been one of the first things Thomas done after getting Sam settled back in the cellar the previous evening. He couldn't risk Dean getting close to the farm. The Englishman was convinced now that that devil of hunter wouldn't. Soon, he wouldn't be a problem.

His eyes snapped back up again though when the volume suddenly increased on the television.

"…Severe weather alert," a voiceover announced before the screen changed to a wide map, covered in a host of colours. The weatherman began to talk, gesticulating at the map. "Good evening everyone, we do have our first tornado warning of the evening now in effect for the majority of Allen County. There are several storm chasers and spotters in this area and the last bit of information we received was a rotating wall cloud – keep in mind that that's a lowering of the cloud base that's often a precursor to a developing tornado. The storm is tracking north west at the moment and the areas of greatest concern are around Geneva and Carlyle."

Thomas got up and stood in the doorway, watching the screen. The whole process was really quite fascinating; he'd never seen anything like it in England.

"That's us, isn't it?" Anna asked, her crotchet hook still working furiously.

"It would appear so."

"If you are in one of these areas, you are officially under the tornado warning and should be heading to the nearest designated safe place. That could be a basement, a closet or a storm cellar. You want to put as many walls between you and the tornado as possible," the weatherman explained, pointing to an angry red blotch that was travelling across the screen quickly. Anna sighed, putting her needlework down in her lap and picking up the sewing bag that was sat at her feet.

"We'd best head down then. I'll grab the bags," Thomas remarked, heading back into the dining room. Shutting off the laptop, he slid it into one of the bags, making sure that he turned off the lights and electrical devices as he went. He heard the TV shut off as Anna shuffled around in the other room. It was rather exciting really; storms in England were average at best and tornadoes were a rarity – the last one had been in 2005 in Birmingham. He'd been miles away in London at the time. The Englishman had no idea how much damage to expect – if any – but he was sure the storm cellar would keep them perfectly safe. And he would keep Sam and Anna safe.

Anna appeared, a small portable radio in her hands.

"We'll need to know when it's safe to come back out."

"Good thinking," he smiled at her, picking up both bags as he followed her out of the front door into the dim world. The wind was already picking up, whipping around them in a frenzy, making the pair squint as the dust from the ground was flung up, stinging their cheeks. The bags wavered and pulled in Thomas' hands as they crossed the lawn. Anna reached down and unlocked the cellar door, pulling it open. She walked down first, Thomas bringing up the rear. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and put the bags down before climbing back up and shutting the door firmly, blocking the screech of the wind from outside.

The light overhead was bright, illuminating his small, imperfect family. Anna was already unpacking one of the bags, placing their spare clothes inside the metal locker alongside Sam's. The radio sat on the small table beside the bed, quiet for the moment. Thomas moved further into the room, watching Sam carefully. His ward was fidgeting, his head turned towards them even though he couldn't see. He gave small tugs on his wrists, twisting his hands nervously. The ropes anchoring him to the bed groaned as he arched up against them, his breathing rapid and verging on panicked. He didn't utter a sound though.

"It's alright, Sam," Thomas murmured when Sam flinched as he reached around the back of his head and untied the blindfold. He pulled the material away and brushed back the hair that fell into Sam's bleary eyes which blinked furiously against the light after hours in darkness. He didn't pull away from Thomas' touch, instead he locked pleading grey eyes on him. The lad really did have a talent for speaking volumes with a single look. Thomas wouldn't be surprised if that gentle, imploring look had won him his way multiple times in the past.

"Nice try, Sam," he said with a soft smile that was sympathetic but firm. Sam groaned, wriggling desperately when he straightened up and moved over to a small pile of air mattresses and blankets which he'd brought down earlier.

Sam watched the Englishman helplessly, wishing he had his voice back. He'd bellowed for hours, trying to call Thomas' name, trying to get him to come and release him from the restraints that had rendered his hands numb and left his shoulders throbbing, but Thomas wasn't having any of it. Even when he'd come down earlier, he'd completely ignored Sam, simply dropping something on the floor and leaving without a word. If he could just persuade him, hell even apologise, Thomas might let him out of his current predicament. But Thomas' unyielding look, while pitying, made Sam's stomach plummet. It had been hours since Thomas had shoved the silicone bulb in his mouth and it was as tight now as it had been then. Thomas meant to keep him quiet, that much was obvious.

The hunter watched Thomas, frowning at the scene in front of him, his confusion overtaking his discomfort momentarily. The Englishman was busy sorting out a pile of bedding while Anna sifted through the metal cabinet. A small radio had appeared on the table. It almost looked like they were planning to…stay down there. With him.

The thought made his heart pound.

Thomas turned around at Sam's quiet insistent moan, meeting his eyes again. Sam jerked his upper body even though he had to know it was useless. His brows were knitted together in confusion, his head tilted slightly to the side. His eyes demanded answers.

Thomas turned away.

Sam's growl of frustration made him smile. Just because he wanted answers didn't mean he was going to get them. Patience was a virtue that the lad needed to learn. Nothing was on his terms anymore. Thomas listened to the creak of the bed as Sam writhed, becoming more agitated the more Thomas ignored him. He crouched down, separating the blankets and folding them neatly, meticulously, taking his time.

Standing up, he turned around, seeing Sam's eyes fixed on him again in his peripheral vision but Thomas didn't even glance at him as he walked straight past. Sam pulled at the gag with small incoherent moans, trying to get Thomas' attention, his frustration clearly building. That was fine; Thomas didn't mind him getting annoyed. He would just have to wait longer. The older man climbed the steps, listening intently at the door. He could hear the winds increasing, a screeching howl that flew across the world over their heads. He double checked the bolts before descending again.

Sam had twisted his head around as far as he could, following Thomas' movements. Having Sam's undivided attention on him was a good sign; he looked to Thomas for answers, just as he should. Thomas' heart swelled.

Yet again, he refused to look at his ward, but this time, Sam didn't utter a sound. His eyes moved to Anna as she pulled up one of the high-backed chairs, putting her sewing bag down next to it and resumed her crotcheting. Removing his jacket, Thomas draped it over the back of the chair nearest Sam before sitting down. Now, he fixed his eyes on his charge who met his look head on, his frustration and confusion still evident. Thomas simply gazed at him.

When he saw the frustration begin to win over the confusion in Sam's expression, his throat starting to work as though he was going to try and talk again, Thomas simply raised an eyebrow. Challenging him. Sam stopped. He huffed quietly and let his head drop onto the mattress, defeated. Thomas gave a tight, fleeting smile. It vanished quickly.

A rumble of wind shot past the cellar, the sound hard and wailing. Sam's eyes widened and he lifted his head, looking back towards the door.

"I told you that your foolish actions would have consequences," Thomas murmured, his tone disappointed rather than angry as he started fiddling with the radio. Sam looked back at him. "I'm pretty sure you know what's happening outside, don't you?"

Sam gave a small nod. He knew what the beginnings of a tornado sounded like.

"You're only half right, Sam," Thomas murmured as he got the radio on, turning it down low as chatter came through. Sam looked from it to him, his breathing picking up. Thomas set the device down gently, a woman's tinny voice explaining the logistics of the tornado warning. "When you went out and contacted Dean, you set off a chain of events. One that Anna and I have been trying to avoid this whole time. You've put us in real danger, Sam, when we have only tried to help you. That's no ordinary tornado outside."

Sam whimpered, shaking his head. He knew where this was going and he didn't want to believe it, didn't want to hear it. Thomas was wrong. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Lucifer is searching for you, Sam. He has been this whole time, but now you've given him a place to look."

Thomas smiled sadly when Sam wailed, his garbled cries of 'no' perfectly understandable through his tone even though the word itself was incomprehensible.

"Sam, shhhh, look at me," Thomas instructed gently, placing his hand on the hunter's bicep and stroking softly with his thumb. Sam turned terror-ridden eyes up to meet him as he leaned in closer. "I won't let him get to you. I promise you that. But we need to be even more cautious right now, alright? Anna and I need to be down here with you. We didn't have time to get out before the storm started and we feared that doing the incantation we use to get out would lead him here."

Thomas watched the horror fill Sam's eyes completely, his nostrils flaring as he fought the waves of panic that were starting to overwhelm him. He was completely, utterly hooked on Thomas' every word. It took everything Thomas had to keep the victorious tremors that rippled through him out of his voice and his expression.

"Lucifer cannot find you – you have the marks on your ribs and that brand stops him from communicating with you psychically. You've got to understand though that I can't risk him hearing you or even you trying to communicate with him in anyway. The gag _has_ to stay on. I won't put Anna in danger like that. We're in enough danger already without making it words. I have no idea how close he'll get so I have to take the precautions I deem necessary. I know it's uncomfortable, but there's not a lot I can do about that right now. Safety comes first and I can't trust that you _don't_ want to go back to Lucifer."

Sam shook his head empathically, another string of incoherent groans escaping past the leather panel. He squirmed with renewed desperation against the ropes holding him down. Thomas reached out his hand, stroking his hair, soothing him while Sam's eyes pleaded with him, his struggles petering out.

"I want to believe you, Sam, I really do. But you've not given me a lot of opportunities to trust you in the last twenty-four hours, have you? I will do everything I can to protect you from _him_ and yourself. We're safe down here, you and I, and I'll be damned if I'm letting the devil come between us."

This couldn't be happening. He wanted, more than anything, to refute Thomas, argue that it wasn't – couldn't be – Lucifer, but deep down, in the hollow of his gut, Sam _knew_.

He could read the signs, see the omens. If it was Dean or Bobby or Cas telling him, he'd believe them, no questions asked. He'd do his research too, but he would never doubt them. The only differences now were that it was Thomas telling him, not his family and how he didn't _want_ to believe it because, if he did, then Thomas was right about everything. Partnering it with the visions he'd seen on the run, which he was pretty damned sure were glimpses of what Lucifer was doing, made it all the more likely.

He had said yes and he was trapped in his own mind.

Turning his head, Sam pressed his forehead into the mattress and tried to fight off the waves of fear that dragged at him, all the while feeling the warm presence of Thomas' hand on his shoulder.

oOo

 **Carlyle, Kansas**

Outside in the blackened streets, the winds screeched past the motel, whipping up leaves and rubbish, flinging them through the air mercilessly. The windows shuddered under some of the stronger gusts but stood firm. Jody glanced out in dismay, her phone pressed to her ear.

"Thank you, you've been so helpful," she finished, hanging up and placing her phone back on the table. She looked over at Dean as he munched his way through a cheeseburger, his eyes focused on his laptop. "So, turns out Don has been on a trip to Jefferson City. He finished yesterday so must've been on his way home."

"Okay, gimme a sec," Dean replied, bringing up Google Maps on his laptop. Putting in the parameters, he hit enter and watched the map zoom in, the blue and grey lines indicating three potential routes. "He could've gone down the US-50, up the I-70 or down the US-54."

"Which is the fastest and which is the shortest in miles?" Jody questioned. Depending on whether Don was eco-friendly, he might have chosen the shorter route.

"There's only five minutes between each one; shortest is US-54 by ten miles."

"Sam said he was near farmland, right? Look for roads near the interstate that have that," Jody instructed. Zooming in, Dean looked at the mass of green surrounding Jefferson City, trying to spot potential spots. Jody's phone chirped, but he didn't look up.

"Shit."

"What?" Now he did. Jody got up and grabbed the TV remote, switching it on. A weatherman stood in front of a multi-coloured map, gesticulating as he spoke.

"…We do have our first tornado warning of the evening now in effect for the majority of Allen County. There are several storm chasers and spotters in this area and the last bit of information we received was a rotating wall cloud – keep in mind that that's a lowering of the cloud base that's often a precursor to a developing tornado. The storm is tracking north west at the moment and the areas of greatest concern are around Geneva and Carlyle."

"Shit," Dean growled. They didn't have time for a damned tornado! He clenched his jaw, glaring at the weather reporter, before sliding his gaze back to the laptop. He'd found two roads that could fit the parameters of their search.

"Don't even think about it, young man," Jody barked, snapping his laptop closed, keeping her hand resting on it. He looked up at her, matching her scowl with one of his own.

"What the hell, Jody?"

"If you are in one of these areas, you are officially under the tornado warning and should be heading to the nearest designated safe place," the weatherman continued in the background.

"We are not goin' anywhere. I know we've found a lead, but we can't go out when they've issued a full-blown warning," Jody answered in her no-nonsense tone.

"It probably won't be that bad…"

"No, Dean. I'm not letting you get us killed because you won't wait for it to pass. We're no good to Sam dead and Cas will be pissed too. We do the sensible thing: wait it out and go as soon as it's clear. Do _not_ make me handcuff you to the bathtub," Jody threatened, narrowing her eyes. Dean hated it when she was right but every fibre of his being told him to go. He couldn't; he wasn't indestructible.

"Fine," he grumbled, picking up the computer and his phone. Jody grabbed her flashlight and the blankets and pillows from the beds, carrying the armful into the interior bathroom. Wolfing the remainder of his cheeseburger, Dean followed her, grabbing another couple of beers as they stepped into the tiny bathroom. He left, entering again with the three large brown cushions from the sofa and shut the door.

Luckily it was one of the cleaner bathrooms Dean had been in, but there wasn't enough room for them both to sit on the floor comfortably. Jody was already spreading out the blankets and pillows, putting some in the dry bathtub before clambering in and passing Dean the other blankets. He propped the sofa cushions against one wall and took the proffered blankets, exchanging them for a beer before settling himself on the floor, his back against the tub, his long legs extended out past the doorframe. Opening his laptop again, he sighed heavily through his nose.

Nature was a pain in the ass.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Anna watched as Thomas straightened out the air mattresses, using a bicycle pump to inflate them. The hollow whoosh filled the cellar, temporarily drowning out the noise from outside.

Wind, unlike anything she had ever heard, had battered the world outside. They had heard things move: crashes and thumps resounding in the cellar as the storm smashed against the farmland. She imagined that the destructive power of such weather was a sight to behold; it was a shame to miss its display of dominance, really.

Her needlework had kept her hands busy as she watched Thomas with Sam during the worst of it. Sam had become increasingly agitated as the storm picked up, grumbling and wriggling incessantly. For once, Anna found herself unable to blame him. He was exhausted – mentality and physically – not to mention uncomfortable and it seemed he was finally beginning to believe Thomas' story about Lucifer. The man really did have manipulation down to an art form; it was nothing less than impressive. Sam was terrified. She supposed that if she was under the assumption that she had the most dangerous archangel in existence on the hunt for her then she might be rather flustered too. He was not the powerful hunter he had been; he was finally beginning to break properly this time.

But through it all, Thomas was patient and understanding, offering comfort to the Winchester, talking to him, soothing him all the while remaining firm. Any fool could see that Sam wanted to be released, to have his own say, but Thomas was resolute. Eventually, he had quietened until it was just his eyes that betrayed the wild panic that was bubbling inside him.

oOo

 **Massive thanks to MJ Ellsworth for all the help with the tornado stuff over the next two chapters. Any inaccuracies are my own.**

 **Please review!**


	19. Weight of the World: Part Two

**Thank you so much everyone for all your reviews, follows and favourites – you make my heart happy! I was blown away with the response to Part One…see you on the other side of Part Two!**

 _"He said don't try to scream now_

 _But I want this one to hurt_

 _And tonight, my pretty one,_

 _I'm gonna get my money's worth."_

 _\- Father's Son, 3 Doors Down_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

The winds had died down for the moment, but they weren't out of the woods yet, according to the radio. Anna was relieved; the notion that the storm was fascinating had long since departed, replaced by an overwhelming anxiety that the woman wasn't used to. Storms in England weren't the same at all; there was none of this never-ending waiting and expectation that it was going to get worse. The sooner it was over, the better.

Thomas had set about preparing the cellar for their stay. He finished inflating the second mattress, standing it up on its end against the wall next to the other one. Despite the stress that was flitting around inside her, Anna remained serene on the outside. They would be fine down here; they were perfectly safe.

"Pull out the table, would you, Thomas? I think it's about time we ate," she remarked, placing her needlework carefully back in her sewing bag. Thomas bustled over, moving the table out so that it was next to the bed rather than at the top of it. He was busy setting the chairs on either side, one next to Sam, the other on the opposite side of the table when Anna came over with the second bag.

If Sam could have, he would have laughed at just how ludicrous she was. A devastating omen, potentially signalling the arrival of Lucifer himself in the area, was raging outside the cellar and she was _worried_ about having the correct layout on her dining table as she placed cutlery, crockery and place mats next to him. He knew the Brits were meant to be famous for their 'stiff upper lip' but surely she couldn't be _that_ unfazed?

She caught his eye and smiled.

"Feed the mind to nourish the soul, Samuel. One must stick to routines in times of adversity more than any other," she explained, clearly reading his incredulous expression. From the bag an array of Tupperware pots appeared, containing a variety of foods; salads, cold meats and breads followed by a thermos of tea. It looked more like she was planning a picnic than storm siege. It was ridiculous but right now he didn't care; despite the waves of fear that continuously lapped at him, he'd eat anything.

Anna sat down, primly placing a napkin across her lap. She began opening the Tupperware pots, pausing when Thomas reached across to Sam who had tipped his head to give the older man access to the buckle holding the leather panel in place.

"Do you really think that's a wise move, Thomas?" she asked, her tone clipped. Both men turned to face her, Thomas' hands paused on the back of Sam's head.

"He hasn't eaten in over a day, Anna," he pointed out. Sam's eyes flicked between the two of them nervously.

"And he only has himself to blame for that, don't you, Samuel?" she retorted, frowning down at the Winchester. "I don't care if he's just found out that Lucifer is after him. He brought him here, not to mention he _broke_ your nose. This is his punishment; he deserves it."

Sam growled, shaking his head violently. He grunted when Thomas grasped the gag's buckle and held his head still.

"There's no need to be rude, Sam," he admonished his ward. Sam glared up at Anna. She sneered down at him before looking away and focusing her attention back on the pots.

"Apart from anything, as you pointed out earlier, we can't remove that gag; we can't trust that Lucifer won't be able to hear him," she remarked tartly as she began spooning portions onto Thomas' plate and then her own.

"She has a point, Sam," Thomas acquiesced apologetically. He let go of the buckle, stroking the back of Sam's head before letting him go. Sam stared up at him in disbelief. He expected Anna to pull this kind of stunt – she was a complete bitch – but not Thomas. He was the one who was supposed to be looking out for Sam! He wouldn't care if they weren't parading it right under his nose. His stomach grumbled painfully as he stared up at Thomas who was took a bite out of a piece of bread, chewing with relish. They couldn't be serious about refusing to feed him and then eat right next to him!

Thomas looked down at Sam who bellowed angrily, bucking against the ropes, the muscles flexing in his arms as he strained and pulled. He finished his mouthful, swallowed and put the bread down on his plate.

"I know it doesn't seem fair, Sam, I do. I'll make it up to you in a bit. Let's have some quiet now though, alright?" Thomas soothed, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder, holding him down. Sam grumbled and scowled up at him. "Come on, be a good lad. Do you want me to put the blindfold back on?"

Why did everything have to end in a threat? Sam gave up, slumping against the bed. He couldn't remember the last time he even won an argument. He hated being so powerless, so out of control. Turning his head away, he stared at the blank wall, wishing he was back in the Impala, next to his brother, the open road ahead of them where he could make whatever choices he wanted.

oOo

 **Carlyle, Kansas**

"Dean, just get in the damned tub!" Jody exclaimed above the peal of thunder that smashed through the tiny bathroom. The sound blocked out whatever grumbling retort the Winchester gave as he clambered up off the floor, grabbing the sofa cushions from against the wall. He swore when the lights clapped out, plunging them into darkness. Jody fumbled with the flashlight in her lap, turning it on and catching Dean's rugged face in its light. He winced and frowned, putting the first cushion over the foot end of the bathtub. Jody sat up, realising that she wasn't going to be able to squeeze herself over enough for him to fit in with her too.

Dean stepped over and into the tub, sliding himself down at an angle as Jody shifted and manoeuvred herself around him. He pulled the other sofa cushions over them, readjusting the pillow behind his head before snaking his arm underneath Jody's head. She shifted again, finally coming to rest her head on his chest, her ear pressed over his heart with thumped hard but not rapidly.

"Well this isn't awkward at all," she remarked, earning a rumbling chuckle from the hunter. Living in the Midwest subjected them to tornadoes fairly regularly: holing up in a bathroom wasn't anything new for either of them and they'd both faced a lot worse in their time.

"Yeah, well at least we both fit," Dean replied. They lay in silence, listening to the thuds and bangs of debris smacking down the street; Dean praying that none of it hit the Impala. He watched as lightning flashed underneath the door, swiftly followed by another thunder clap. Jody jumped, not expecting the sound.

"I hope Sammy's not sittin' through this," Dean murmured when the noise lessened, his chest vibrating under Jody's cheek.

"If he's out near Jefferson City, I doubt they're within range of this. It's heading in the wrong direction; he probably won't even know it's happening," Jody answered gently.

"Yeah, you're probably right," he sighed. Somehow, the thought wasn't as comforting as it should've been.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Thomas sat on the bed next to Sam, his back to his ward as he reached for the knots in the rope connecting Sam's wrists and ankles together. They were tighter after Sam's attempts to get loose and it took him a few minutes to undo them.

Sam groaned with relief as he finally felt his legs being lowered. They were complete deadweight – Thomas had to straighten them for him. He could already feel the blood pumping past his knees in a rush, but he couldn't move them even if he tried. The ropes above and below his knees were removed but the piece securing his ankles remained. A surprised grunt escaped his throat when he felt Thomas pressing down on the backs of his thighs. Sam shot a look over his shoulder to see what the hell he was doing, moaning when he felt the palm of Thomas' hand kneading the deadened muscle, bringing feeling back slowly and painfully. He found himself torn; he didn't want this, not from Thomas, but after so long tightly bound, the compressions were that painful pleasure that brought him relief from the numbing ache.

Thomas worked methodically, using his thumbs to manipulate the knots out of the muscles in Sam's legs, ignoring the small jerks when he found particularly stubborn ones that elicited muffled grunts from his patient. He just pressed harder, fighting the resistance in the muscle until it gave in and dissipated.

"Deep breaths, Sam; it'll help," Thomas suggested. Sam winced when his thumb dug itself in again. He stifled the temptation to turn and glare at the Englishman; how exactly did he intend for Sam to take 'deep breaths' with the damned monstrosity stuck in his mouth?

When Sam tried to move away, Thomas simply placed a hand on his thigh and held him down until he complied. Finishing with one leg, he proceeded to work on the other, taking as much care as he had on the first. He didn't mind; he knew Sam appreciated it, even if Thomas didn't let him voice his gratitude.

"Now then, Sam, feel better?" Thomas asked as he turned to face his ward. Sam gazed up at him, a frown threatening to creased his forehead, but Thomas could see the war in his eyes. Slowly, Sam gave an almost imperceptible nod. Thomas leaned down slightly, almost conspiratorially. "I imagine you'd like the opportunity to stretch your legs, have a walk around and maybe get into a more comfortable position, yes?"

A desperate eagerness lit up the solid grey of Sam's eyes at the suggestion as he gave a more pronounced nod. Thomas smiled.

"I thought so, although that doesn't mean you're losing the bonds; we're not through this storm yet," he reminded, watching the glint of annoyance flicker back into the cool grey. Thomas got up and loosened the rope that still held Sam firmly to the bed. Moving away, he walked over to the shelf as Sam rolled himself onto his side, moving his legs, testing the rope around his ankles. He stopped when Thomas raised an eyebrow before sitting down beside him once again, a strange metal contraption, a bottle and a white cloth in his hands. Sam eyed them suspiciously as Thomas put the bottle and cloth down.

"These are the rules: if you cooperate _fully_ , you'll have the chance to move around for a while and you'll have your hands in front of you for the remainder of the night. If you choose not to, if you fight me, I will use that," he gestured to the bottle and cloth," and I will stick you straight back in the position you've just been in and you'll remain that way for the next two days." Sam bulked, his eyes widening as Thomas continued.

"By cooperating I mean this: you will do as I say without question or hesitation; there will be no hitting, kicking or violence of any kind; and you will not, under any circumstances, touch that gag. Am I absolutely clear?"

Sam looked up into Thomas' eyes, surrounded by the painful black bruising he had inflicted and nodded silently, wishing he had any other choice. There was no way he was going to risk ending up in that hogtie again. Besides, where would he go? The thought of leaving the cellar made his heart pound against his ribs.

Thomas poured a small amount of liquid onto the cloth, making a show out of it. Sam wanted to roll his eyes, but he refrained. Thomas helped him sit up, putting the strange device down next to him before moving around to the hunter's back. Sam stared down at it as he felt the rope around his torso loosen. It was solid metal, roughly half an inch thick: long and curved at both ends, with a clasp at one end and a hinge at the other, a noticeable line was indented down the centre, allowing it to split apart. The top end, where the hinge was, featured a large metal ring, while the bottom encased two smaller rings sat about an inch apart, a small keyhole visible below the ring on the right. That end was smaller, seated about eight inches away from the ring at the other end. The long, solid section in the middle was half the width of the larger, one-ringed section. The whole thing was relatively thin, with only an inch or so of metal looping around the large ring and the same around the bottom. If it wasn't for its size, it almost reminded Sam of a giant pair of police-issue handcuffs.

"When I release your hands, you're going to put them in your lap and you're going to wait," Thomas instructed. Sam nodded, his shoulders sagging. He felt the ropes loosen and finally slip from around his wrists. Doing as he was told, he rested them in his lap, rotating his shoulders while he rubbed the chafed skin around his wrists with his fingers. Thomas picked up the strange metal device. "Turn and face me," he ordered. Sam swung his still bound ankles off the side of the bed so that he was sat on the edge, Thomas stood over him. The older man worked the clasp and the whole metal unit separated down the middle, connected by the hinge at the back of the large circle, just as Sam thought it would. Thomas raised it over Sam's head, fitting it around the back of his neck. Sam flinched when the cold metal touched his skin. His stomach dropped when he realised how the device worked and it took everything he had to remain calm.

"Raise your right hand," Thomas ordered. Sam looked up at him, resentment clear in his eyes and, just when Thomas thought he wasn't going to comply, he did, lifting his right hand up. Thomas guided it into one of the small circles at the other end of the device, flipping up a piece of metal so that Sam's wrist was firmly encased in the unit. "Hold it there for the moment; do the same with your left," Thomas commanded, repeating the process with Sam's left wrist. The hunter was now sat with the device hooked around the back of his neck, with a wrist shackled on each side, his arms bent upwards as though he was about to pray. Thomas pushed the two sides together, closing the gap. "Easy," he murmured when Sam whimpered, feeling the metal ring close around his neck completely. His hands were brought together so that they were side by side in front of him but without touching. Thomas snapped the clasp at the front so that it locked before sticking a small key into the top, securing the whole thing. He stepped away and walked back over to the shelf.

Sam tugged experimentally on his wrists, feeling the metal bite into the back of his neck when he did. The piece sat snuggly around his neck like a collar, but it wasn't uncomfortably tight. Twisting his wrists was useless; they were firmly held upright and in place by the metal, held about eight inches from his face, but he could neither reach his face nor the clasp that Thomas had closed. It was hardly a more 'comfortable' position.

"You're doing excellently, Sam, well done," Thomas smiled as he dropped a wide leather strap on the bed next to the hunter.

"Indeed, I was concerned for a moment, Thomas, considering the last time you asked him to cooperate," Anna remarked drily. Sam shot her a baleful glare as Thomas knelt and released his ankles.

"Sam knows better now; he knows we're only trying to help," Thomas replied, his tone light as he coiled the rope and put it to one side. Shame coloured Sam's cheeks; cooperating was the last thing he wanted to do, but he was left with no other choices. He was caught indefinitely in a catch twenty-two: be at the mercy of Lucifer or be trapped with the crazy, domineering English. Obeying the lesser of the two evils – who might just be able to save him – seemed the wiser choice.

He stood up when Thomas motioned for him to do so, watching suspiciously as the older man slipped the strap into the crook of his elbow. Frowning, he turned his head and watched as he began running it across Sam's back to loop it through his other arm, obviously planning to yank his elbows back. It would completely restrict his arms. Sam frantically shook his head, whimpering in horror. Thomas paused and looked up at him, his hands still holding the strap.

"I don't need this?" he asked. Sam shook his head, imploring him silently. Thomas raised an eyebrow. "I don't know, Sam…I can't have you lashing out. Look what happened last time."

This was so frustrating! If Thomas would just take the damned gag off, Sam could reassure him, explain that he knew it was useless fighting back. He was sick of being so confined that he'd do practically anything to get out of it by now.

Thomas watched Sam's vexation with amusement – not that he let it show. Sam jerked his head, fighting his muzzle, clearly trying to make himself coherent and getting more and more annoyed when he couldn't. As an intelligent, articulate man, it was proving to be one of the easiest ways to break him.

"Alright, alright," Thomas sighed dramatically, pulling the strap out from through Sam's arms. He coiled it but pointed up at the hunter with it in one hand threateningly. "But, this is me trusting you. Don't make me regret it."

Sam moaned with relief even as he fought the ridiculous gratitude that flickered through him. Thomas put the belt on the table before he began guiding Sam around the cellar, letting him stretch his legs. Outside, the storm began brewing once more.

oOo

 **Carlyle, Kansas**

The bathtub vibrated subtly beneath them as hailstones battered the roof above, sending tremors through the whole room. Trapped beneath the soft cushions and the incessant drumming, Dean and Jody had made the most of the situation: using their phones for research until the storm interfered with their mobile signal; talked about Alex and Claire's blooming friendship; laughing about Cas' latest misunderstood references and playing Who Am I? until the storm got too loud and forced them into a stressed silence.

Jody felt Dean shifting yet again beneath her, tension exuding from him in small rolling waves.

"Talk to me, Dean," she urged him, having to raise her voice yet again to be heard clearly. In the glow of the flashlight, she propped herself up on her elbow and studied his face carefully. His eyes were dark and thoughtful, the light casting deeper shadows underneath them. His mouth was downturned and pressed into a hard line, worry seeming to imprint itself permanently into his skin. He didn't look at her; he just kept his gaze turned up to the ceiling. She didn't expect him to meet her look, but she knew he would talk in his own time.

"I don't know what we're gonna do."

"What d'you mean?"

"When we find Sam. He was barely himself when he got taken. That was what…two weeks ago? We'd only just started makin' progress with him, gettin' him past his detox, getting' him to go out. Then the one time I leave him, he's gone." The regret, the guilt that was consuming the older Winchester was plain to see. Jody squeezed his arm comfortingly. "And he knows we're lookin' – I know he does – but we're takin' too long. Every minute we're leavin' him with them, the worse it's gotta be for him. What if he can't keep fightin'? What if it's too late by the time we get to him?"

"He's made it through everythin' else life's chucked at him," Jody pointed out softly. The wind screeched outside the door.

"But when does it just get too much? We don't even know what they're doin' to him. You didn't hear his voice, Jody; you didn't hear how damned…broken he sounded. Hell, he sounded like he did when he thought he was seein' Lucifer – but worse. Back then he put on this front that he was okay, but deep down, I knew he wasn't. It's the same now. What if he never gets over this? What if he's not the same…Sam, anymore?"

Jody pursed her lips, steeling her spine as she fought the tears that pricked in the backs of her eyes. Dean hadn't looked at her once, instead, he kept his eyes up and focused, battling to keep his control. She couldn't bear to see her boys suffering.

"Honestly? I don't have the answers, honey; I wish I did," she replied, bringing up a hand to tilt his head down gently. Finally, he looked her in the eye and she saw his control beginning to fracture. "I doubt he will be the same when we first get him back. It's gonna take time. Lots of it. You might even need to stop huntin' for longer than you ever have before, but _that's okay_. You don't need to shoulder this on your own. We're all gonna be there, every step of the way, until Sam gets back on his feet. And he _will_ do that, Dean. If there's one thing I know about you Winchesters, it's that you're the most stubborn pair of mules I've ever met. He'll be okay. _You'll_ be okay. It's just gonna take time."

 _Time_.

Everything was always about time. Sitting there, listening to the wind scream and the hailstones hammer against the roof, Dean had never been more aware of time running away from him. He couldn't stop it, couldn't control it and he hated it.

It never seemed to be on their side.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Hailstones thundered against the metal door, the cracks like gunfire echoing around the cellar. It was a cacophony and Sam wanted nothing more than to cover his ears. Thomas finally brought him to a standstill, laying out one of the air mattresses, and helping lower him onto the mattress. It shifted under his weight and he scooted backwards slightly to maintain his balance on the unstable surface when Thomas walked over to the shelf. God, He hated these things.

Sam watched Anna carefully from his position on the floor, noting the tightness in her shoulders and the way her mouth had pressed into a thin line. She was angrily stuffing a pillow into its case, ramming it in and then giving it a firm shake to make it bounce back. It'd become clear when she'd started stripping the sheets off the bed that he was going to be on the floor for the night. God forbid the 'lady' should sleep on an air mattress. Yet, watching her made him uneasy; this was the most emotion he'd ever seen her openly display. And he knew exactly where that anger was coming from: fear. But what was she afraid of? He glanced at Thomas quickly, noting a strained tightness around the corner of his eyes. Sam suddenly clocked the tension rolling off the pair of them. They had always been so calm and collected…he shifted back again nervously, pinning his gaze back on Anna.

Was there more going on than they'd told him? If they were getting nervous, how close was Lucifer? Could Anna sense him? Was that why she was afraid?

Sam felt sweat begin to prickle on his forehead as his heart began to pound.

Thomas crouched down in front of Sam, pulling his legs out straight, almost surprised when he didn't resist. The Englishman looked up and saw Sam staring over his shoulder, watching Anna curiously. He glanced over his shoulder and felt his heart squeeze. He hooked a strap under Sam's ankles and looped it over.

"Anna, are you alright?" he called, having to talk louder than normal to be heard. When she didn't respond, he finished buckling the strap securely and stood up, leaving the extra ones on the floor. Sam's gaze followed him up, watching him apprehensively. Thomas moved over to Anna, placing a hand on her shoulder, shocked when she jumped. "Anna, what's the matter?" he asked, concern filling him when she turned with a wild look in her eyes, unlike any he'd seen in her before.

"What's the matter?" she hissed, her voice high-pitched, almost strangled. " _What's the matter?_ Do you hear that, Thomas?! We have been down here for hours and it just. Won't. Stop. How much longer must we be subjected to that racket before it's over?!"

Thomas ran both hands up both of her arms soothingly.

"I know it's unpleasant, but it can't be helped –"

"It could have been," she shrieked, glaring down at Sam venomously. "We wouldn't be down here in this…this…pit if it wasn't for _him_! We wouldn't be stuck here, waiting for lord-knows-what to happen!"

"We can't blame Sam, Anna; what's done is done," Thomas murmured. She glowered down at Sam who looked up to Thomas, gratitude flickering in the back of his eyes. Why should he get off lightly through this? She hated her fear and hated that Sam had caused it; if it weren't for him, they wouldn't even be in America. If she had to suffer, so did he.

And she knew exactly which buttons to press.

"Of course we can!" she spat, gesticulating at him furiously. "Do you hear that outside? How brutal it is? That's Lucifer! That's who we're going up against, risking _everything_ for someone who threatened to expose us just because he wanted to get back to the imposter he calls brother!"

"He didn't know Anna; he can't help it. It all feels real to him…" Thomas interjected, surprised but he caught on quickly. Inwardly, he'd never been more proud of her; she was terrified by the storm and, even though she was venting her fears, she still followed his plan. She was beyond extraordinary.

"Well, it's not. That is not he's real brother; his real brother is _dead._ "

Sam shrank back, his heart banging against his ribs as he gazed, wide-eyed, up at them. He barely registered Thomas snapping his head round to look down at Sam as he just stared in horror up at Anna.

"Anna, if he's going to eject Lucifer, he needs hope – not this," he implored. Anna waved a hand dismissing him as she turned on Sam fully.

"No, he needs a wake-up call," she snarled, stalking over to him and crouching down, grabbing his chin. "Dean is dead, Samuel. The real Dean, not the imposter you've been clinging onto here." Sam shook his head, a tiny choked moan escaping past the gag. She tightened her grip. " _Yes_. That's what you can't face about this whole thing, isn't it? You can handle the thought of a world without your precious brother in it." Sam tried to jerk away, looking desperately up at Thomas, but the Englishman just stood there, shaking his head sadly as Anna continued.

"The real Dean sacrificed his life – his very existence – to overcome the Darkness. Did you _honestly_ think he – or anyone else – could survive that? That he could somehow stop her by any other means? Since when has the universe ever been that forgiving? You know better than that, Samuel. True evil requires a sacrifice to be defeated and that's what your brother did. Dean saved the world."

Oh, she was astounding! Thomas watched the fear, the uncertainty alight in Sam's eyes as she took the details he'd given her and twisted them for their purpose.

"And how do you honour his memory? By being _weak._ By giving in to Lucifer. You _condemned_ the world Dean gave everything to protect." Sam groaned, desperately trying to escape her grip, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't want to hear this. Anna's voice dropped, dripping with disgust. "What would he say if he could see you now? If he knew that you would rather let the world burn, just so you could live in your own happy little world with something that _isn't even him_. _What would he say?_ "

Time stopped.

The hailstorm was muted, the radio chatter gone, Thomas and Anna's faces blurring out of view. Was he breathing? Could he?

 _Dean is dead._

Anna was right; it was the one thing in their whole truth that he hadn't been able to face. Hadn't been able to think about. Couldn't think about.

 _Dean is dead._

He'd spent four months grieving, locked away in Toni's cell before Dean saved him. He'd thought it had been the miracle he'd prayed for. But it wasn't. It was just another lie. Dean was gone and nothing would ever change that.

He was never coming back.

He couldn't go through this again. He wasn't strong enough. He couldn't do it. He couldn't.

 _He's my brother._

 _I swear, it's like talking to a brick wall._

 _There ain't no me if there ain't no you._

"Sam?" Thomas called, crouching down next to his ward, genuinely afraid for the first time. Sam's face had gone completely blank, his eyes dead as he just sat there, still as stone. Thomas wasn't even sure he was breathing. "Sam! Shit!" he exclaimed, moving to unbuckle the gag. Anna's hand shot out, stopping him.

"Don't. Wait." She instructed before drawing back her hand and slapping the hunter across the cheek, snapping his head to the side. The hunter jerked back to life as if he'd been electrocuted, his eyes wide as he sucked a ragged breath in.

And lost it.

Anna fell back as he came to life, thrashing and bellowing, his long legs kicking out as he pulled and twisted, trying to wrench his hands free, to reach the muzzle, to do anything. She slid back out of the way as Thomas pounced on him, trying to subdue him. A strangled keening sound was ripped from Sam as he fought them and the anguish that rolled through him. Thomas grabbed the metal device around his neck, pulling the berserk hunter onto the concrete floor, forcing him onto his back.

"Anna, quickly! Help me hold him!" he barked as he pressed down on Sam's shoulders, ignoring the fact that it was pushing his brand into the floor. She came and took his place, using all of her weight to hold Sam down. A sense of satisfaction filled her; she hadn't realised that the news of his brother's 'death' would cause such a strong reaction. Thomas would forgive her later. She watched as he grabbed the spare leather strap and sat on Sam's legs, near his ankles, pinning him down as he slipped the strap under his thighs and cinched it tight.

"It's not enough. Don't let him go, Anna!" Thomas ordered, his voice laced with concern as he stood up. Sam immediately started thrashing again. He doubted the poor lad even knew what he was doing. This wasn't exactly how he'd planned to 'break' the news, but it was out now and if they weren't careful, Sam was going to seriously hurt himself. He raced to the shelf.

Anna struggled as Sam's movements got wilder. She was no match for a 240lb hunter. She cried out when his torso snapped up, his forehead cracking her under the chin, stunning her.

"Anna!" Thomas shouted when he heard her cry. Whipping around, he saw her lying on the floor, her hand grasped to her jaw. He shot to her side, but she waved him off as she sat up.

"I'm fine," she winced. Thomas ran to Sam who had managed to get himself up into a sitting position and was flailing like a man possessed. Grabbing him from behind, Thomas quickly threaded the strap through the crooks of both elbows, across Sam's back, before pulling it tight. Sam thrashed and howled as his elbows involuntarily jerked backwards, dragging his hands down and back, removing all the slack he had in his arms. The buckle was secured and, try as he might, Sam could neither move his arms forwards, backwards, up or down. They were completely immobilised.

Thomas pushed him onto his side as gently as he could, snatching a hold of his writhing legs and looping another strap between the one holding his ankles together. He made short work of threading it through the one across the back of Sam's thighs and pulled it hard, bending the hunter's legs as he buckled it off too.

Sitting back, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, watching Sam squirm desperately, but, now fully immobilised, he could barely wriggle let alone hurt himself or them. Still he cried forlornly, the sound going straight through Thomas. Pulling his ward upright onto his knees, Thomas scooted around him and gathered him into his arms, resting Sam's head on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," he whispered as he rocked the broken boy, rubbing his back soothingly, resting his chin on Sam's shoulder. Sam tried to prise away from him, but Thomas just held him closer, bringing a hand up to nestle at the curve of his neck, holding him in place whilst stroking the soft hair there. He ignored the tiny wrenches of Sam's inhibited arms as he tried to move. Slowly, moment by moment, as he hushed the grieving brother, Sam's stifled moans turned to whimpers of despair and he sagged, exhausted into Thomas' embrace.

"It's okay, Sam, let it out, I've got you," Thomas crooned, rubbing soothing circles across his back. This would be his final acceptance. Thomas smiled blissfully; soon their struggles would be over.

The hailstorm had slowly begun to die down, leaving the cellar in a stunned quiet as if it too had been shocked into submission by the admission. Anna looked down at the two men, her heart thumping. She was not of an athletic age anymore and such excitement was certainly not a regular occurrence for her. Rubbing her jaw tenderly, she frowned down at Sam, his sobs further muffled by Thomas' shirt. He was more trouble than he was worth. Both she and Thomas had lost their Lady Toni not a month ago and they hadn't been reduced to snivelling imbeciles. No, they held their heads high and showed proper respect through their refinement. The American didn't have a modicum of decorum in him.

Well, she wasn't going to spend the rest of her night listening to his incessant wailing.

She moved back to the bed, finishing tucking in the sheet around the mattress as the soft sound of Sam's sobs grated down her spine. She clenched her jaw, trying to block out the racket. In a little while, she would put a stop to it and get her peace. Now if that damned storm would cease as well, she would be satisfied.

Thomas clung to Sam until he felt his own heart slow, letting the shock and the fear begin to drain away. As long as Sam needed him, he would be strong. He wouldn't let the storm faze him now. Pulling away from Sam, he cupped his ward's face in both hands, wiping away the tears that streaked down his cheeks with his thumbs. Sam screwed his eyes shut and tried to avert his head, but that was alright; he was in pain.

"Come on, Sam, let's get you lying down," Thomas offered as he let go. He moved around him, no longer afraid of Sam lashing out. Gently, he manoeuvred the younger man over onto the air mattress, tipping him onto his side. Sam moaned softly, arching against his strict restraints but he wasn't in any danger now. Thomas had protected him. He slid onto the mattress by Sam's head, propping himself up against the wall. Sam grunted as he lifted him, bring his head down to rest in Thomas' lap. The Englishman soothed him, stroking his hair back gently, enjoying being able to provide the comfort that Sam so desperately needed.

Unable to move, Sam languished in his misery, fresh tears slipping from his eyes. He wanted to be alone, to grieve on his own, not suffer through Thomas' ceaseless petting. It just drove in his captivity, his helplessness further. He had no one. He was completely alone.

It was time. Anna moved over to her bag, looking for one of the two white pots she'd packed, having anticipated Sam's behaviour when they'd first assumed they were going to be down here with him. She checked the labels carefully: vecuronium in one, Valium in the other. She put the Valium back and shook out a tablet from the other bottle. Thankfully, both drugs looked the same. Sam _should_ suffer, but that didn't mean they should have to suffer with him. The paralytic effects of the vecuronium would ensure that happened.

"Here. Give him this." Thomas looked up when Anna approached, a water bottle in one hand and a pill in the other. He looked down at Sam again who was lying with his eyes closed, clearly trying to rein in his emotions.

"Is that really necessary?" he asked, concern creasing his forehead. Anna nodded.

"You know it is, Thomas. Samuel is far too agitated. What if Lucifer senses his grief? If I had known he'd react like this, I would never…"

"It's alright, Anna. We'll get him through this," Thomas interrupted, giving his forgiveness freely. Her actions would benefit them in the long term, that much was already evident.

"Still. He's exhausted – we all are. That storm isn't going to help him sleep nor is his grief. It's only a mild dose to help him relax. It's a kindness, really," she persuaded smoothly, holding out her hands again.

Slowly, Thomas nodded. "Alright."

He reached down for the buckle securing the gag, loosening it carefully with one hand. As the buckle came unclasped, he wrapped his other hand under Sam's head, stretching it around to gently press his palm against Sam's mouth so that he could hold the gag in place before pulling the straps free. Sam groaned and looked up at him out of the corner of his bloodshot eyes.

"We're going to give you something to help you relax. I'm going to take this off so that we can do that, but I need you to stay quiet, Sam; Lucifer could still be close so we need to be careful," he explained, his voice low, tone soft.

The cold sting on his cheeks felt strange as the leather panel was pulled away, exposing his skin. He winced as Thomas removed the gag completely, the silicone bulb scraping past his teeth. Sam groaned as he shut his mouth for the first time in hours, the ache in his jaw muscles running painfully through his face. He glared up at Thomas.

"Go to hell," he rasped through dry lips, "I don't want _anything_ from you."

"It's for your own good, Sam," Thomas remarked as he took the pill from Anna. Sam clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head, trying to get away from Thomas but could only manage the smallest of wriggles as the straps around his arms and legs held tight. "Come on, be a good lad," Thomas implored, not even needing to hold Sam to stop him from moving away; the hunter couldn't do a thing. Sam jerked his head when Thomas pinched his nose shut, trying to force his mouth open. He bucked and squirmed but it was useless and soon enough he gasped for air. Thomas shoved the pill in, swiftly followed by the rim of the water bottle which banged against his teeth. Sam choked as the water flooded into his mouth – a sensation that should have been inviting after being gagged for so long – but knowing that it was flushing the pill down his throat was the last thing he wanted.

Thomas held on firmly, keeping his ward's head tipped as he forced him to drink, having given him no time to push the pill to one side of his mouth and therefore conceal it. He kept going until the bottle was empty. Sam coughed and spluttered but the pill was gone and the damage done.

"Son of a bitch," he groaned between coughs. Was this night ever going to end?

"You'll feel better soon, Sam; just relax, now," Thomas replied mildly, picking up the discarded gag once more. Sam saw him and his eyes widened, pleading desperately.

"Haven't you done enough? Please, Thomas – you don't need to do that. I'll be quiet, I swear," he begged, his voice raspy and breaking.

"I do, Sam; I can't risk bringing Lucifer down on us. I'm concerned you've already said too much," Thomas sighed, looking almost apologetic.

"He won't, you know he won't. Plea–" Thomas cut him off, sliding the gag back into his mouth smoothly. Sam whimpered pitifully as the leather was pulled back around his head and secured once more. His head dropped back into Thomas' lap as he gave in, utterly exhausted.

"There we go, that's better. It's only a sedative; it'll help you sleep," Thomas soothed, rubbing Sam's arm. Sam grunted, feeling his body begin to go numb, his limbs turning to lead. He struggled weakly, but he felt sluggish and, after a few minutes, he couldn't move his extremities. What the hell? Sedatives didn't do this; they made the victim lucid – they didn't stop them from moving. Horror filled him; she'd given him a damned paralytic!

"Oh dear, he's still agitated, isn't he?" Anna remarked, forcing sympathy into her tone as Sam gave a garbled moan. Honestly, she was amazed at his stubbornness; he couldn't possibly talk with that muzzle on and yet he tried.

Maybe he'd realised what he'd taken.

Good. She hoped that he did; she wanted to look in his eyes and see the dawning of horror in their depths as he lost movement limb by limb and know that there was not a thing he could do about it. Yet, even more than that, Anna wanted him to know that she'd done it purposefully. She'd told Thomas it was a sedative – and would claim an innocent mistake if he discovered otherwise – knowing he would object. Sometimes he couldn't see the woods for the trees. Sam had lashed out, been a terror and needed controlling. If Thomas couldn't do it, she would. She didn't want Sam to relax: she wanted him to consider the consequences of his actions. She wanted him to languish in his desolation and the paralytic would help him do just that.

And she wanted to see it happen.

For that, she needed to get closer. Her eyes slid across the shelf and alighted on just the item she needed.

 _Perfect_.

"We're getting there," Thomas insisted, feeling Sam relax against his thigh. He reached over to the strap between Sam's elbows and undid it, pulling it off. "I don't think we need this anymore, do we?"

"Here, this will help. I always find it difficult to sleep with the lights on, even if I have taken a little something to help me sleep," Anna offered, crouching down in front of the two men, a black cloth in her hands. She locked eyes with Sam as Thomas looked away, reaching for the strap holding his legs together. Anna let Sam see her smug satisfaction and the triumph whispering across her lips as she saw realisation, anger and, finally, that delicious horror pass through his eyes.

He knew.

She smiled slyly, revelling in his hopelessness. Reaching down she slipped the blindfold over his eyes, delighted when he didn't resist at all. He couldn't. The pill was fairly fast-acting; by now she doubted he could move at all.

Sam watched helplessly as darkness descended on him even as he felt Thomas release and straighten his legs. He wanted to scream and shout, but instead, his lungs inflated and deflated rhythmically, his vocal chords frozen like the rest of him. He was trapped.

"Thank you, Anna; you're so kind to him," Thomas smiled as he straightened up, glad to feel his ward finally quieten. Anna smiled at him, before glancing towards the door.

"It sounds like the worst is over; I'm going to turn in," she replied. Thomas nodded as he went back to lacing his fingers gently through Sam's hair.

"I'm going to stay up; I want to be here in case he wakes up properly," he answered, gazing down almost lovingly at his boy. Sam's breathing had evened out; he was finally falling asleep. Thank god. It had been an eventful night and Thomas would be glad to see the back of it.

Trapped in the darkness, alone and despairing, Sam saw Dean's face hovering in his mind's eye, so real and yet too distant. His heart beat steadily but inside he felt like he was dying. He couldn't do this – not without his brother by his side. He wanted to scream, wail, sob, hit something – _anything_ – until he bled. Grief opened up the pit and sucked him down; there would be no rest, locked inside his own body with nothing to focus on but the heartache that consumed him.

And through it all, Anna's words rang mockingly in his ears.

 _What would your brother say if he could see you now?_

oOO

 **What a night for our Sam! The metal shackle thing was inspired by the device used in the Logan trailer (if it sounded peculiar go watch and you'll see it).**

 **Please review!**


	20. Ashes Will Burn

**Bit of a disclaimer: Ketch WILL act differently compared to the show. He was written into Broken before we saw him properly in S12; he therefore looks and acts differently in this as I would rather keep him true to this series than reinvent him.**

oOo

 _"Baiting every hook with filthy lies."_

 _\- Feed the Machine, Nickelback_

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The door banged shut, echoing throughout the bunker. Castiel looked up, frowning, a hefty tome cradled in his hands. Sliding the volume onto the table, the angel rose and stalked out of the small sub-library where Sam had organised their lore on ancient languages.

"Dean?" he called, sliding his angel blade out from underneath his trench coat. The last text he'd got from Dean had said they were stuck in a tornado and were waiting it out. That had been the previous night; he wasn't expecting them back. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he treaded softly, silently, grasping the cold metal of his blade.

Rounding the corner and entering the war room, he saw a figure standing with his back turned to the angel, putting a briefcase on the long table in the library.

"Who are you?" Cas barked, coming to a stop at the bottom of the steps up to the library. The man turned. Piercing grey eyes stared down at him dispassionately.

"Castiel. A pleasure to see you again," he remarked, his tone almost a complete contrast to his words. He sounded almost…bored.

"Arthur Ketch," Cas responded, surprised. He slid his angel blade back into his trench coat. "I expected you yesterday."

"Yes, well it would appear that your weather was less that accommodating. Where is Dean?"

"Following a lead down in Carlyle although I haven't heard from him in a few hours."

"And you didn't go with him?"

"No. I've been doing research here," Cas answered, annoyance slipping into his tone. He'd forgotten how…curt the Englishman was.

"Right. I'd suggest you get me up to speed with what has happened, what you've discovered and what this lead is. Jonathan Markham gave me most of the details, but I would prefer to hear them again from you," Ketch explained, taking a seat at the table and pulling out a leather-bound notebook. He opened it and pulled a gold-tipped fountain pen from the inside pocket of his suit. Motioning for Castiel to take the seat across from him, he clearly had no qualms making himself at home. Cas sat down and took a deep breath, writing a quick text message before meeting Ketch's unnerving gaze.

"From the beginning, if you will," Ketch prompted, his pen poised. Shifting in his seat, the angel began.

oOo

 **Carlyle, Kansas**

The ground was a mess of sludge and water, the hailstones from the previous night melting into giant pools of water that were a murky brown. Tree branches were strewn across the carpark and the Crossroads Motel sign was swinging sideways in the now gentle breeze, hanging on by its one remaining screw. Considering the sound and the length of time the storm raged on for, it would seem Carlyle had had a close escape.

The Impala hadn't been quite so fortunate.

"Fuckin' sonofabitch storm," Dean snarled as he yanked on the tree branch that had lodged itself through the windshield. It grated past the glass, sending shards tinkling into the car's interior. Wrapping his hands around the rough wood again, the hunter wrenched the offending limb free and flung it away. He'd been fired up and ready to hit the road and then…seeing a tree sticking out of Baby was not what he had expected.

Or needed.

Jody walked over, perching on the hood of the car.

"Repair guys will be here in a couple of hours – best they can do. Lotta damage this mornin' so they're swamped," she explained softly. Dean glared at the gaping hole in the glass. Jody patted his arm. "I know it's not good enough, Dean…"

"Not 'good enough'?!" Dean bellowed, his eyes flashing with rage. "How many more fuck ups are there gonna be before I can find my brother?! When is fate gonna give us a goddamned break?"

"I know, but we've gotta keep it together and just ride it out. We _will_ leave as soon as we can and we _will_ find Tupper," Jody soothed, gazing up at the seething Winchester. "C'mon. We might as well go find coffee." She gave a gentle tug on his jacket sleeve as she got off the Impala. Dean began to follow her, pulling out his phone when it vibrated.

 _Ketch is here. – C_

"Well somethin' might be goin' right," he grumbled, showing the message to Jody.

"Good. Cas can fill him in and then we can put him to work," Jody nodded. Dean huffed a chuckle. She glanced up. "What?"

"Oh, you wait til you meet the guy. Ketch isn't the kinda guy you 'put to work'. He's…creepy." Jody rolled her eyes.

"We can deal with creepy as long as he's useful."

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Sam had had many, many long nights in his life. The stay in hospital after the truck hit the Impala and Dean had fallen into a coma. The night when Dean was ripped apart by the hellhound. When he realised he'd started the Apocalypse. Bobby's death. Looking for Dean when he was a demon. So many endless nights over the years.

But all paled in comparison with now.

Trapped with his grief inside his leaden body, the Winchester had agonised, unable to sleep, unable to move. All he could do was think. Hell, he hadn't even been able to cry. He'd felt every sickening stroke of Thomas' hand through his hair though. The Englishman hadn't said anything, assuming Sam was asleep, but his touch had been constant. At first, Sam had wanted nothing more than to escape from beneath his hand, but slowly, as the minutes became hours, the touch became warm and comforting. Alone in the dark, Sam could almost pretend it wasn't Thomas.

When the movement did eventually stop, Sam found himself craving it. He needed comfort; that Thomas was the one to give it to him no longer mattered. So when Thomas' hand stilled, a part of Sam wished he could ask him to start again. Instead, his lungs just continued to inflate and deflate. He didn't want to feel so alone. Thomas' hand came to rest on his shoulder, his palm spreading warmth through the thin material of Sam's t-shirt. And, god help him, Sam focused on it. He used it, trying to remember moments of comfort he'd shared with his brother, with Jody, with Charlie, with any of his family. Yet, the memories became tainted; he would never share those moments again. He had to push them from his mind when they became too much, bringing a new, sharp edge to the throb in his chest.

Eventually he just…gave in. Let the flood gates open. He couldn't do anything else. The pain spread wide before cloaking him in a heavy numbness, deadening his already decaying senses. He didn't care anymore. He wanted it to end. It never would.

For the first time in a long, long time, Sam Winchester truly wanted to die.

Yes, he'd wished for it during his captivity with Toni but never like this. He'd still had a modicum of control back then; _he_ was the one saying no to her, to Lucifer. Yet, he'd given in. And now he was stuck in a hellish nightmare of his own making.

He had no issue with attempting to kill himself – it had happened enough times – and he was resourceful enough to do it. The problem was that Thomas was resourceful too. Even if Sam could get hold of something to use, the Englishman would never let him get that far. Hell, it was probably the reason why he was so…meticulous about Sam's restraints.

Thomas wasn't the true cause of Sam's reluctance though; Lucifer was. The Devil had created a world for him where he was supposed to think he was mortal – that he could and would die. Hunting wasn't exactly a safe profession. Lucifer intended to ride him for all eternity and that meant the hunter had to be shotgun on the ride too. If Sam's life continued to just stretch on endlessly, he would notice something was wrong and, since he wasn't supposed to know that Lucifer was occupying him, the archangel couldn't risk him fighting back.

Sam had every reason to believe that if he died, he'd be brought back. Yet, the problem was how. Again, he doubted that he would just wake up from wherever he'd died. No, Lucifer was more cunning than that. He'd reset, caught in an endless timeless like Gabriel had done to him all those years ago, but this time without his memories. Not only could he end up reliving this nightmare over and over again, but, if he did, Lucifer would win.

 _What would your brother say if he could see you now?_

There it was. He couldn't ignore the fact that Lucifer was riding him. He couldn't let his brother down. He needed to fix this – all of it – and dying wasn't the way out.

Even though he was loathe to admit it, Thomas' way seemed to be the only way out. As much as he long to end it all, he just…couldn't. Not yet.

Sam knew it was edging towards morning when he heard Anna start to move around. Thomas had whispered conversations with her, but Sam wasn't listening; he didn't care what was said. Yet, he did care when Thomas moved, cradling his head gently so that he could edge his leg out from underneath Sam, replacing it with a pillow. The material was cold compared to the warmth of Thomas' leg and Sam found no relief in the exchange. Whatever Anna had given him was strong; he still found himself barely able to move his extremities, although feeling was starting to come back into his fingers and toes. He assumed that meant it was wearing off.

Eventually, Thomas lifted him, still believing him to be asleep, manoeuvring him onto the bed. He heard the door creak open and squeal shut as Anna left. Sam's stomach turned. The bed no longer smelled of the lingering traces of Dean's cologne, which, while Thomas had stopped dabbing on a few days ago, had remained, soaked into the fabric, giving him an ounce of comfort. Now, Anna's sickly sweet perfume invaded the air around him. It attacked his senses, bringing a lump to his throat. He didn't want anything to do with _her._

Thomas began removing his encumbrances one by one as the leaden feel of his body began to fade, letting him twitch his toes and fingers. It wasn't quick enough, but he couldn't find it within him to get frustrated. It wasn't like he was ever allowed to move freely anyway. What did it matter than it was a chemical that restrained him this time?

A thin chain was wrapped around his middle and the metal contraption was removed from his wrists and neck. Thomas carefully straightened out his arms, keeping all his movements smooth and gentle as he enclosed Sam's wrists in the leather cuffs. Sam knew the ones; they attached to the chain at his waist, giving him some movement in his arms but not much. If he was right, they'd be accompanied by the same cuffs on his legs, a short chain between them and the other chain connecting him to the wall. At least he'd be able to move around a bit. Not that he could go anywhere, anyway. Nowhere was safe and there was nowhere he wanted to be anymore.

Thomas lifted his head and Sam was mildly surprised to find that he could contract the muscles in his neck enough to lift his head up. The buckle of the gag was undone and – finally – the silicone bulb was removed from his mouth. The ache in his jaw was like fire and he struggled to close his mouth fully even though the paralytic had mostly worn off. He licked dry lips with a parched tongue but said nothing.

"How're you feeling, Sam? Rested?" Thomas greeted softly as he removed the blindfold, smiling down at Sam sadly. He was surprised to see how awful his ward looked, considering he'd slept for over six hours. It was a good thing Anna had suggested the sedative; he'd look even worse if he hadn't taken it.

Sam slid his gaze away, staring up at the ceiling.

Thomas felt his heart thrum; they were so close. Sam's reaction wasn't defiance.

It was defeat.

It oozed from him, almost palpably, sliding from him slowly wave after wave. He hated making Sam feel that way, yet, he was Thomas' very own phoenix; he would rise from the ashes of his despair, becoming a new, greater legacy. His true protégé. Seeing him suffer was unpleasant, but wholly necessary. All it would take would be one final nudge and Sam would be his. Unequivocally. Thomas had never felt such eagerness before; it was intoxicating.

"That's alright, Sam; I know you're hurting," he murmured gently, rising from the chair when he heard the door scrape again. He met Anna at the door, taking the tray from her with a grin. "Is it in the water?" he whispered, keeping his voice soft and low. She gave a single curt nod and left without a word, the door echoing again. Traipsing back down the steps, he smiled warmly at Sam. "Anna's brought your breakfast. Hopefully you'll feel a bit better after you've eaten."

Sam turned his head, watching, eyes hollow, as Thomas set the tray down. Some vague part of his mind wondered what Anna had tainted his food with this time and yet he just couldn't bring himself to give a damn. He was starving and he was pretty sure Anna wouldn't actually try to kill him. She wouldn't be helping Thomas, putting herself in so much danger if she'd wanted him dead. Plus, if she did (and his death theory was right), they'd just end up going through all of this again. No, she just liked dealing out her brand of education. It wasn't like she was down here so it was unlikely that she'd done anything. She seemed to get her kicks from watching.

Thomas helped him sit up, resting his back against the cold metal of the bed's headrest. He put a straw in the uncapped bottle of water, holding it out. Sam took it between his lips and sucked greedily, finally glad to have some relief for his parched mouth. It was cool as it slid past his tongue, a slight acrid taste to it – the kind that sometimes came from different water sources.

The Englishman watched as Sam gulped down the water, drinking more than half of it before he took the straw away. He gave no reaction other than relief; Anna had mixed in his…special dose well. It was for the best; Thomas had waited a long time to use it. Now was the perfect time to test it.

Sam watched as Thomas put the water bottle down on the table and dipped a spoon into a heaped bowl of cornflakes, holding it up to Sam's mouth. With his hands fettered to his waist, he couldn't feed himself and so resigned himself to being fed by the Englishman. Maybe a day or two ago, he would've objected but now he was too hungry and too tired to care.

 _That's my job, right? To look out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother._

Not anymore. The black hole inside him widened and it was only Thomas' gentle coaxing that kept him eating. There was no one else to look out for him anymore.

Thomas continued to ladle the cereal, helping Sam finish his breakfast as they sat in a companionable silence. It gave him the chance to study his ward closely. He wasn't overly happy with what he saw. Sam's cheeks were hollowing slightly and his white shirt was a lot looser than it had been. It wasn't surprising, really; Sam had been down in the cellar for nearly two weeks and, in that time, they'd had that small spat over his refusal to eat in the early days and obviously his recent punishments. His…energetic escape attempt had been his only real form of exercise. Thomas would need to monitor him closely during his absence. Perhaps it wasn't the most ideal time for it, but it needed to be done. He would prepare for any potential mishaps, just in case.

Sam licked his lips as he finished the final mouthful that Thomas held out to him. He relaxed back, feeling full despite the fact it wasn't exactly a huge meal. The straw was held out to him again and he readily accepted it, washing down the remaining vestiges of food with the water.

Thomas always seemed to know exactly what he needed.

Sam's body stilled and he paused. Where the hell had that come from? A soft ripple of calm spread through his mind, easing his tension. It wasn't important: nothing was. He drank until his thirst was quenched. Thomas put the bottle on the table.

"Better?" Thomas asked and this time he nodded. "Good. I know you've had a lot to take in and I can only imagine the pain you feel. But I _am_ here for you Sam; I want to help you through this."

"I know," Sam murmured, fighting against the grief that threatened to bubble up.

"The best way I can do that is by stepping up my research on Lucifer and how he is controlling you. I need to go out to do that," Thomas explained. Sam felt panic flicker through him, unbidden, unwanted.

"You don't need to go," he replied, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. He didn't want to be alone. Not now. Not when it meant leaving him to confront his waking nightmare on his own.

"Look, let's get you lying down," Thomas soothed, helping Sam slide back down, fluffing the pillow and positioning it gently under his head. He sat on the edge of the bed, a clean strip of cloth in his hands. "I know it's not ideal, Sam, but it must be done."

"Please," Sam was horrified to hear the pleading in his own tone. "Don't leave me here alone."

"I have to, Sam," Thomas murmured, brushing Sam's hair from his forehead. "I'll only be a couple of hours and then I'll be right back with you, alright?"

"Please," Sam tried again, hating himself even as he did so. He couldn't seem to stop himself.

"Come on now, open up," Thomas coaxed, holding the new cloth up in front of Sam's face.

"Nommph" Sam moaned, his protest cut off as Thomas gently slid the knotted centre of the cloth into his mouth.

"Good lad, it's alright. Lift your head for me," Thomas reassured him, as he tied the new gag off behind Sam's head. He smiled down at his ward, whose large grey eyes were mournful and pleading. He cupped Sam's cheek with one hand, brushing his thumb over his cheek. "I'll be back soon, alright? Try to get some rest."

Sam whimpered as he got off the bed, picking up the breakfast tray and heading out the door. Moments later, he was gone.

oOo

Anna was sat at the kitchen table, her empty breakfast bowl in front of her and her usual cup of tea balanced delicately in one hand. She was reading on a tablet when Thomas entered.

"All sorted?" she asked politely, sipping from her cup as she motioned to his breakfast which she had already set out at the seat at the head of the table.

"Yes, I think so. It's going to be a tough few days but, once it's over, I think we'll finally be ready to start the next phase of our journey together," Thomas replied, putting the tray containing the remnants of Sam's breakfast by the sink. "I'll get started on clearing the mess outside later on today as well."

"We can do it together," Anna offered, sliding the tablet away as he sat down with her. "Considering the racket it made, I'd expected a lot more damage – particularly to the house. I could only see a few broken tiles from the roof and a section of the fence missing besides all the debris."

"We'll have a proper look in a bit, but, I agree, we certainly seemed to be very lucky," Thomas agreed, buttering a slice of toast. They sat in companionable silence, Anna looking out of the window, her expression thoughtful while Thomas ate. He studied her look. "What's on your mind, Anna?"

"That…mixture you asked me to put in Samuel's water. What was it?" she asked curiously. Thomas smiled around his mouthful of toast, chewing and swallowing before answering.

"A special little concoction that I found a few years ago in the Men of Letters' library. I strongly suspect it was the inspiration for Mr Ketch's notorious interrogation serum. I don't know the specifics but I know that his recipe represses free will and forces the victim to tell the truth. However that's a far cry from the original spell which I have stuck to. There's no truth element to it but it will suppress Sam's emotional free will; he won't be able to defy the emotions it creates. There's a mixture of siren venom, djinn blood, lavender, rose thorns, powdered moonstone and a sample of my hair. It's designed to create feelings of…attachment to the benefactor," Thomas explained, drinking his tea.

"So Sam will start to, what, crave your attention?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. He will come to see me as a protector, as the person he can rely on. For all intents and purposes, I will become the new Dean." Saying it out loud sent a shiver of satisfaction down his spine. While he loathed the despicable Winchester, he couldn't deny Sam's love for him. Sam would be the son he'd never had.

"Why didn't you use it before? We could have saved ourselves a lot of time and effort," Anna pointed out, frowning mildly.

"Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way; it's a very subtle kind of magic. Sam needed to already foster some of the emotions that the potion intends to replicate and amplify. He was too defiant before; now, with the realisation that Dean is dead, he cannot escape and has no one, we have already planted the seed that he must rely on us to save him. The spell is simply allowing that feeling to grow and spread."

"How will you know when it's working?"

"I already do," he smiled.

"How?" Anna asked curiously.

"He begged me not to leave him. That hasn't happened before. Poor lad, he looked quite taken aback when he said it. With the isolation of the next two days, coupled with the spell that makes him see visions of the 'real world', which I intend to perform again later on, he'll be desperate for me to return by the time I do eventually go back down. Then we'll know if he's actually ready for our next stage."

"Now that I'm certainly looking forward to. We've already been away from England for far too long. Let's hope it's all over soon," Anna remarked primly, finishing her tea. Thomas grinned.

"It won't be long now, don't you worry."

oOo

 **Carlyle, Kansas**

Dean was hovering. He watched and scrutinised every move the repairmen made, flitting around Baby with the look of an overbearing parent. He'd put his beloved car through hell on a number of occasions, rebuilt it himself on many more and yet he still hated seeing strangers working on it. That wasn't the source of his agitation this time though.

He just wished they'd _hurry up._

"Dean will you just…stop?" Jody hissed, elbowing him in the ribs. He glared down at her. "You're pissin' them off and that ain't gonna make them finish any quicker." Dean huffed and moved away, plonking himself down on the curb, running his hands back through his hair. He dragged them down his face and exhaled slowly. Jody came and sat next to him.

"I just keep thinkin'…"

"I know you do. And it's not helping. Focus on what we're gonna do not on the stuff that may or may not be happening to Sam. I know that's hard, but that's what's gonna help him now," Jody insisted, keeping her eyes on the repairmen as they began fitting the casings around the edge of the new windshield back onto the Impala. Dean gazed at her, noting the worry lines that had formed between her brows and the unusual downturned set of her mouth. She was holding him together – he could freely admit that to himself – but he hadn't fully appreciated the effect of losing Sam on South Dakota's tough sheriff. Jody had stuck with him since Sam had been gone, calling her girls frequently to check they were alright, but, when he'd insisted she should go back to them, she had simply said her boys needed her more.

And that little statement had filled him with a relief he couldn't describe.

Now, he realised that he hadn't been looking out for her – not like she had for him. He gave her a small nudge with his shoulder, getting her attention focused up on him.

"How you doin', Jody? Really?" he asked, tone sombre. Jody pursed her lips and, after a moment, gave a little shrug.

"Same as you, I guess. I just have to keep to the belief that everythin' will be fine when we get Sam back. And I can't wait to get my hands on the damned Brits who took him. It's been a while since I decked someone," she grinned without humour. Dean huffed a dark chuckle.

"You and me both. Gankin' them is second only to gettin' Sam outta there."

"They're still human, Dean." It was neither accusatory nor exculpating. She was simply stating a fact.

"And not all monsters are evil," he replied without malice. Taking human life wasn't something hunters ever took lightly, yet, Dean saw no other conclusion for the man who had tortured, abducted and _branded_ his baby brother. He had learnt the mistake of letting threats go with Gordon all those years ago. He would not let Thomas be a danger to Sam. The final words he'd heard down the phone had sent a chill through him.

 _He's mine and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it._

"You're good to go, sir!" one of the repairmen called, breaking the hunter from his reverie. He rose alongside Jody, stalking over to the Impala. They'd wasted enough time. The engine roared to life, Dean's expression grim, his jaw set.

 _I'm coming for you, you sonofabitch._

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

 _He blinked – he could feel it – but it was completely involuntary. It sounded stupid, even to him. Blinking is an unconscious motion that doesn't require thought. Yet, doing it when feeling so…disconnected from his own body was a wholly strange experience. He'd felt it before though._

 _His head turned, surveying the area. An intense feeling of satisfaction flooded through him, but it wasn't_ his _satisfaction. What was there to be satisfied with? The walls were dank and dripping, covered in a thin slime that reeked of decay and despair. There was a steady dripping echoing around the room, intermittent, annoying. His gaze swung back around to a bloodied figure sitting slumped in a chair. Their head was tipped forward, shoulders shuddering with each breath. They looked…defeated. Lost. Sam stared at them curiously as he walked forward._

 _"Do you know what, I think we could make this last forever. I've got so many…tricks I haven't even considered using yet." His voice spoke, soft and taunting, tickling his throat but they weren't his words. Hands – his hands – placed themselves on the figure's shoulders, making them jump. They didn't reply. Sam's hand reached back, pulling out a long silver blade that caught the dim light, glinting brightly. He brought his face down, nuzzling the side of the figure's face. They flinched beneath the proximity. Sam wanted to look at them but his gaze was focused downwards at the blade he had poised in his hand, as it hovered lazily over the figure's chest, scraping against a torn and greying shirt, flicking a tie, discoloured by blood, with its tip. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? It would make up for your…failure. I wonder if I can punish you more than you punish yourself," he crooned, rubbing his cheek against the soft, damp hair on his victim's head. "Shall I try?"_

 _Punish? Who was he talking to?_

 _The blade sank in, through the shirt, past the blue tie, drawing a line of intense blue light from the cut. Sam's head remained pressed to his as Cas flung his back, his scream mingling with Sam's silent wail, his own laughter ringing in his ears._

oOo

His own muffled scream woke him up. Disorientated, Sam looked around wildly, trying to place where he was. This wasn't his room in the bunker! The blank walls bore down on him, closing in as he snapped his head the other way, looking at the other blank wall before looking down and seeing himself. A garbled moan of anguish fell from his throat as he clenched his teeth around the cloth in his mouth. His reality crashed back around him, knocking the air from his lungs.

Sam looked to the door, wishing desperately that it would just open. He didn't want to be alone. The more he stared, the less the door opened. Why wouldn't it open? It wasn't like he wanted out anymore – it was too dangerous with Lucifer around – but he just wanted to hear that familiar bang and creak that signalled when Thomas was coming down.

Struggling upright, he sat, bent over, trying to steady his breathing.

Inhale. Exhale. Again.

It wasn't helping. He looked up through the locks of hair that had fallen forwards into his eyes, fixing his gaze on the small black camera in the corner opposite. The longing for company, for comfort, tugged at him, tearing at the black hole that was already filling his chest. He wanted Dean but he would never get his brother's comfort again. A dulled part of his brain was horrified by the thought that he wanted Thomas instead. It tried to tell him that it was wrong, that he shouldn't. But he had no one else.

Cas…

Hell, look what he'd done to the angel. Of course, Cas would have tried to save him – it's what the angel did. And Sam had made him suffer. All because he couldn't take his own suffering anymore. He was weak; he knew that now.

Looking up at the camera, he hoped Thomas could see him. Wanted Thomas to see that he needed him. Long minutes passed. Nothing happened.

"Omm-mas!" he bellowed, his words muffled as he tried to form Thomas' name around his gag. He hollered over and over again, trying to call for the Englishman.

He was weak. He no longer cared.

oOo

Thomas sat at the dining table, completely torn. Immense satisfaction had flooded through him when Sam had started looking to the door and then the camera; the zoomed in shot revealing his imploring look. A huge grin broke out across his face when Sam started calling for him; it was definitely him that his ward was calling for – the syllables of his name were easily recognisable.

Yet, as Sam's cries continued, his heart ached for the poor lad. He needed Thomas, desperately, which, while it was exactly what Thomas had hoped for, he hadn't realised how much he'd find himself wanting to comfort Sam. He wanted nothing more than to go to his protégé, but he couldn't. It had only been a few hours. He had to be strong. For Sam. If they were ever going to achieve the happiness they deserved, they had to complete this step.

Cruel to be kind as the saying went.

Eventually, he couldn't take Sam's whimpers anymore and went out to the kitchen, helping Anna with her cooking preparation. He would get through this. It was hard now, but the rewards would be…immeasurable.

Picking up a knife, he began slicing through the vegetables that were laid out beside the chopping board. Selecting an onion, he peeled it before chopping it with thoughtful detachment.

He'd performed the spell which conjured the visions of the supposed real world again, adding the name of the angel into the mix. Before, Thomas hadn't specified targets for Sam's visions. He let the spell devise random images of non-existent people so that Sam could 'see' what was happening in Lucifer's supposed reality. Now, he needed targeted imaging of Sam's loved ones. Once Sam saw what his decision had done, he would be desperate to do anything he could to get free of the Devil.

The problem Thomas had was that he didn't have many names. He knew of the angel, but no one else. Sam had always been…closed off when it came to talking about the people he knew. It left Thomas with limited options; he couldn't go down to the cellar and drawn Sam into a conversation – trying it beforehand would never have worked either – which left him with another visit to the Men of Letters' bunker. Sam had had so many journals. Even if he could take the most recent, he was sure he could get names he could work with. He wanted to bug the bunker anyway – so that he could monitor Dean – thus it gave him another reason to go.

Picking up a bell pepper, he sliced the knife through it carefully. It was settled then; he would go to the bunker tonight.

oOo

 **I know Sam is starting to appear OOC, but that's partly due to Thomas' spell work but, also, the poor guy's been through one helluva journey so far in this story! So I hope you keep sticking with me – I'm trying to be as realistic to his character as I can, but the effects of this much psychological manipulation makes it unchartered territory for me (and him!).**

 **Please review!**


	21. The Unexpected

**Sorry for the delay – it's been a hectic couple of weeks here at Angst Towers! Thank you so much for all your wonderful feedback, particularly regarding whether you thought Sam was out of character. It's such a tough one because he is – he can't go through everything and still be the same. But I'm so glad that you're all enjoying it!**

oOo

 _"And if you can't tell: I'm scared as hell."_

 _\- Lullaby, Nickelback_

oOo

 **US-54E, Outskirts of Fort Scott, Kansas**

After so many setbacks, Dean was relieved to finally push the Impala to devour the ground between them and Jefferson City. The road stretched off towards the horizon in a continuous straight line, greenery speeding past them as they shot along. The journey had been silent between him and Jody; she had been on the phone to the Jefferson City sheriff's department, trying to determine if Don Tupper had been found in a car accident. She'd been on hold for five minutes and, to Dean, it felt like hours.

"Ms Mills?" A voice crackled back down the line.

"Yeah, hi," Jody confirmed, sitting up a bit straighter, her phone pressed to her ear. Dean glanced over at her.

"I'm real sorry, but none of the RTAs that have been reported in the last three days have involved Don Tupper. I'll keep my ears open though and, if he does appear, I'll be the first to call," the sergeant explained, his tone sincere and apologetic.

"Thanks anyway," Jody finished, pressing the end call button. She sighed and looked to Dean whose jaw was clenching and unclenching, the muscles visibly moving beneath his cheek. He didn't need to hear to know nothing had come up. "It just means no one's found him yet," she said softly, "it does happen when people come off down back roads that people don't use often."

"Yeah, but what's a guy out on business doin' down some back road that no one else seems to go down?" Dean asked, bitterly. He couldn't let the idea that this was another dead-end in. It wasn't. It had to lead somewhere.

"Maybe he was visitin' someone. We won't know until we get there," Jody murmured, wishing she could speak with more conviction. Dean's phone blared and he hooked it out of his jacket pocket, passing it to Jody when she held her hand out. She checked the caller ID and put it on speakerphone.

"Hey, Cas," she greeted.

"Where's Dean?" Cas' tinny voice floated through the speaker. She rolled her eyes.

"In the seat next to her, Cas. You're on speaker," Dean replied haughtily.

"Oh. Where are you?"

"On our way to Jefferson City."

"I thought you were leaving first thing."

"Yeah, well, the tornado didn't help with that," Dean grumbled, his knuckles whitening as his hands twisted around the steering wheel. "Where's Ketch?"

"I'm right here, Mr Winchester." Jody's eyebrows raised and Dean rolled his eyes at her dramatically. Yes, he did use surnames. "I must say, you seem to have got yourselves into a complete mess with all of this. You should have called Jonathan earlier; we could have helped avoid a lot of this."

"it wasn't like we knew Sam was gonna get grabbed by one of your crazy ex-members who _you_ were supposed to find," Dean growled.

"Alas, we are past the point of just stating the obvious and passing blame. What's done is done and we must move forwards," Ketch retorted, keeping his tone perfectly civil. "Now, Castiel informs me that you're looking for an individual – Don Tupper – whose phone Sam used to contact you, yes?"

"Yeah. We looked into his business trip itinerary. We're about three hours out," Jody explained.

"Have you contacted the local law enforcement to ascertain if Mr Tupper has been found?"

Dean's jaw clenched; he wasn't in the mood for Ketch's patronising nature. "Course we did. They haven't found him. We reckon he came off down a backroad somewhere."

"Hmm."

"Hmm? What does 'hmm' mean?" Dean barked, glaring down at the phone.

"It seems highly unlikely that a businessman would have any need to venture down country roads when travelling. That is, unless, he has known associates in the area. Have you looked into that?" Ketch explained, his voice cold almost bored.

"I was about to when you called," Jody answered, bristling. She didn't like the Englishman's manner at all.

"Well, I would assume that, unless you do find a personal connection, you've been thrown a red herring."

Dean's blood chilled. He didn't want to think that way and having Ketch voice it certainly wasn't helping.

"What makes you think that?" Jody asked. She shifted in her seat.

"You're not dealing with some unorganised miscreant; you're attempting to track a _Men of Letters_. Thomas has proven himself to be resourceful, cunning and meticulous – everything we train our associates to be. Hacking into a company's system and changing a few details is exactly the type of activity he would do," Ketch explained, almost impatiently, like he was teaching children.

"How do you know?"

"Because that's exactly what I would do. Whatever Sam saw of Mr Tupper's would have been seen by Thomas as well. He knows you would track the vehicle."

"So are you sayin' we _shouldn't_ follow it?" Dean snarled through clenched teeth. What if he was right? They couldn't waste time following a lead that didn't exist!

"Not at all; there is the smallest chance that I'm incorrect. Ergo, it must be followed up. As with all cases, all areas of enquiry must be thoroughly checked," Ketch remarked. "On that note, Castiel has finally discovered the original of that symbol."

"I can talk for myself," the angel growled across the line.

"My apologies."

"Dean, it's a very specific symbol and Sam was right: it does block angels. If he's been branded with it, there's no way I can contact him. I'm sorry," Cas clarified.

"Shit," Dean swore quietly.

"However, it does give us another line of enquiry which is certainly something," Ketch interjected again.

"What kind of lead?" Jody questioned.

"Thomas would have had to have had that symbol made into a brand. Skilled though we are, individual Men of Letters are not blacksmiths; we have a department of those. I called them to check if such a symbol had been commissioned in the past few weeks and it hasn't. Therefore, Thomas would need outside assistance since making it himself would not ensure accuracy. It's an unusual symbol and if myself and Castiel work together, we might be able to track down where it was manufactured. That will help us narrow the geographical window."

As much as he didn't want to feel indebted to the Englishman, Dean was. It wasn't a lead he'd even considered.

"Awesome. Well if you find anythin' let us know," Dean instructed.

"Obviously. Don't spend too long searching up and down roads; go with your instincts and if that doesn't work, you'll know Thomas sent you on a false trail," Ketch replied. Jody mumbled a goodbye and hung up. She looked up at Dean who was back to clenching his teeth again. His eyes were narrowed and he pursed his lips into a thin line.

"He's just some stuck-up Brit. He doesn't know everythin'," she offered gently, knowing his pride was hurt.

"Yeah, well, hopefully he does. We need all the help we can get – especially if this isn't gonna take us anywhere," he sighed, running a hand back through his hair. Somehow, he knew Ketch was right and the thought that he was heading to nothing was…unbearable.

Yet, it had to be done.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

"Where do you want this?" Anna asked, holding up the license plate in one hand. Thomas looked up from his laptop, reaching out a hand for the chunk of metal.

"I'll put it with the rest of Mr Tupper's effects; we can dispose of it all when we eventually leave here. I don't want any of it to somehow end up found and used to identify him," he explained, putting the discarded metal in the top drawer of his desk, placing it carefully on Tupper's wallet and destroyed phone. Anna went back to polishing the sideboard, rubbing the wood vigorously with her cloth. Tidying the debris in the yard had put her in the cleaning mood. She'd attacked every surface in the kitchen and living room so far, meticulously scrubbing everything. As the morning had waned, they'd reached an unusual kind of limbo. Normally Thomas was up and down to the cellar or was preparing something for Sam. But the decision to keep the hunter in isolation for a few days had left them both with less to do. So she was making the most of it.

"Right, I think that's the transmitter sorted," Thomas declared, although he didn't have the usual triumph in his tone. He held up the small device for Anna to see, but she looked past it to him, noting the bags beneath his eyes and the worry lines forming around his mouth. It was going to be a tough few days for him.

"Are you sure you should be travelling all the way to Lebanon? You hardly slept last night," she chided softly, frowning. Thomas shrugged.

"It's a nine hour round trip and I would much rather do it today when Sam is a bit more stable. I need to be here tomorrow just in case and we need to know what Dean's doing and where he's going to be. The sooner I get there, the sooner I can be back," he explained, twiddling the small black transmitter in his fingers. Suddenly, he stopped and pocketed the device before rising.

"As long as you're sure," Anna sighed, following him as he made his way into the hall. She put down her cloth and unhooked his jacket from the coat stand. He took it from her and smiled.

"I am. Now, while I'm away, do please keep the laptop on and check on Sam regularly through the CCTV. I'm sure nothing will happen when I'm gone. If there is an emergency though…"

"I'll call you first if I'm unsure," Anna cut in, smoothing the shoulders of his jacket when he slipped it on. He turned and faced her, grasping her upper arms gently.

"I know I'm just being paranoid and that nothing will happen – I have the camera feed linked to my phone as well, but I obviously can't watch and drive. I just don't want to jeopardise this part of the plan by having to go down earlier than we expected," he explained. Anna patted his cheek, smiling.

"Everything will be fine, Thomas. Sam is suitably contained and I won't let anything happen to him. Go on, before something else crops up," she shooed, nudging him towards the door. He grinned and moved towards the door, heading down to the car. He climbed in, shooting a worried frown towards the door of the cellar.

It would all be fine.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The bunker was almost oppressively silent. Castiel had always wondered what it would be like to do research with someone who didn't need to talk (sometimes needlessly) about inane details and trivial things. Now, working alongside Arthur Ketch, who was single-mindedly driven and entirely focused, the angel realised how much he enjoyed the banal parts of researching with the Winchesters. Ironically, Ketch was too much like an angel: cold, emotionless and task-driven. There was nothing else there. For once, Castiel found himself on the uncomfortable end of awkward company. Ketch didn't appear to be bothered at all.

Between the two of them, they'd researched and located nine different blacksmiths in Kansas. Taking half each, they'd called each one, questioning with a thoroughness that was only excelled by Ketch's apparently endless patience. Whenever Castiel was apparently being curt on the phone, he would look over, not missing a beat of his own conversation, not even lifting an eyebrow or changing his expression and yet the angel found himself feeling chastised.

He'd worked through three of the four on his list while Ketch was still on his second. Cas was about to call the fourth when he saw the Englishman straighten up just a little more, which almost seemed impossible.

"Emporia, you say? I can be there in…" Ketch typed quickly, balancing his phone against his shoulder, "…three and a half hours. Will your man be in by that time? …Excellent, I'll see you then." He hung up, placing his phone on the table top next to his computer.

"Did you find it?" Cas asked eagerly.

"Potentially, yes. The manager seems to think one of his apprentices may have done an unusual commission. We'll go with the drawing and see if we can confirm it. We'll leave as soon as you're ready," Ketch replied, gathering his things. Cas blinked.

"I am ready."

"Oh." For once, the Englishman seemed to have been caught off-guard. "Right, well, come along then."

Ketch strode from the library, not waiting for the angel to keep up. Castiel rolled his eyes. This was going to be a long trip. They stalked into the underground garage of the bunker where the selection of vintage cars gleamed in the artificial lights.

"I still don't know why you got a cab here," Cas remarked. Ketch looked over at him.

"I knew there were plenty of vehicles here. And your American cars are so…flamboyant. I'd much rather drive a true classic – something British," he answered, heading over to the spotless grey Rolls Royce Silver Wraith which dominated the other vehicles.

"We could take one of the others."

"Nonsense. A car like this deserves an outing," Ketch retorted, speaking with the most passion Castiel had ever heard him use. The Englishman climbed into the driver's seat, bringing the engine roaring to life as Cas got in beside him.

Honestly, he couldn't understand humans' obsessions with cars.

oOo

 **I-135, Outskirts of Bridgeport, Kansas**

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata eased its way around the interior of the car, wrapping around Thomas in a soothing melody that massaged the tension from his nerves. He'd felt every mile since leaving the farm, constantly plaguing himself with concerns of worst case scenarios. The last thing he wanted was for something to happen to Sam now; they were so close. He'd refrained from calling Anna, knowing that he needed to wait a reasonable amount of time before doing so.

It had been two and a half hours; that was more than reasonable.

Turning down Beethoven, he used the car's inbuilt function to bring up Anna's phone number before hitting dial on the steering wheel. The phone rang through the speakers, going on forever as he watched the road. Thomas' eyes lingered on the smooth curves of a vintage grey Rolls Royce which zoomed past in the opposite direction. A Silver Wraith – he hadn't seen one outside of a museum for quite a long time. It would seem that some Americans had taste after all. As much as he disliked the bulk of the BMW X5, it certainly had its uses with its technology.

"Hello?" Anna's voice echoed around the car. Thomas breathed and focused forwards again.

"It's me, Anna – just wanted to check in."

"Where are you?"

"Outside Bridgeport – probably about another two hours from Lebanon," he answered. "How's Sam?"

"Fine. He's been quite quiet again. He had a bit of a walk alongside the bed, but he's back on it now," she explained. Thomas nodded even though she couldn't see him.

"Good, good. Has he called for me again?"

"I haven't heard anything, but I did have the hoover running for a short time just after you left. I _will_ call if anything drastic happens, Thomas; you don't need to concern yourself."

"You know me – I am a worrier," he smiled, his tone self-deprecating.

"I know. Call me when you get there. Samuel and I will be waiting, don't you worry," she replied. He could almost hear her rolling her eyes at him, but knew the gesture would be tempered with a smile. Saying goodbye, he hung up and turned the radio back up again. She'd settled his mind for another couple of hours. He didn't know what he and Sam would do without her.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Jefferson City, Missouri**

Trees hid the horizon, blocking the view of the state's endless fields. Shadows blackened the edge of the road, stretching across ditches and concealing pools of stagnant water. Animals roamed through some of the fields, pulling up the short grass with small tugs, ripping the plant out at the roots. Tractors rumbled across other vast green expanses; it was the picture of a working agricultural hub.

Which wasn't what Dean wanted to see.

The roads they'd ventured down were smaller than the interstate, but they were by no means _real_ backroads. Traffic flowed along them intermittently and everywhere he looked were signs of workers. If Sam had escaped near here, someone would have seen him or, at the very least, Don Tupper's car would've been discovered. His stomach dropped lower and his anxiety grew.

Approaching another barn, he slowed his pace to stop his boots crunching over the loose stones that paved the way. They'd visited three farms so far and all of them had been fruitless. Jody had spoken to the owners, giving Dean time to search around for storm cellars and any sign of his brother or the Englishman. He listened as Jody was greeted at the door to his left as he snuck around the side of the barn, keeping to the shadows. Ducking beneath a window, the hunter rounded the outhouse, looking for signs of a cellar. There was no point looking in the barn; Sam had specifically said it was a storm cellar and no one in their right mind set one up inside a barn.

Spying a small mound across the lawn around the back of the house, Dean fixed his gaze on the metal door that was slanted at a forty-five degree angle. Glancing at the house, he waited for any signs of movement. Seeing none, he jogged across the yard, heading to the cellar. The metal was warm under his palm when he reached it, fingering the padlock that kept it closed.

"Sam?" he called, voice low. He waited. Heard nothing. He tried again, louder this time. "Sam!"

Nothing. That didn't mean anything though; anything could be stopping his little brother from responding.

Pulling his lock pick from his pocket, the older Winchester made short work of the lock. He slid it off easily, checking again over his shoulder before easing the door open. It opened silently and he stared down into the darkness below.

"Sammy?" he called again. Still nothing. Dean stepped down into the cellar carefully, switching on the flashlight he'd pulled from his pocket. He had to duck to get down into the main cellar, swiping the light across the room.

It was full of boxes.

The hunter let out a frustrated growl. It was yet another dead end. Switching off the flashlight, he stalked back up the stairs and slammed the door shut, no longer caring whether anyone heard him or not. Ketch had been right all along, but, deep down, Dean knew that he would never have been able to turn back and ignore the lead. It wasn't who he was.

He met Jody back at the Impala, saying nothing as he slid back into the driver's seat. They sat in silence for a few moments, his hands clenched around the wheel.

"I don't think there's any point checking any more farms," Jody said quietly, watching Dean carefully. His eyes slid closed and he sighed heavily.

"I know. He's not here," he whispered. He'd wanted nothing more than to rip open that cellar and find Sam waiting at the bottom for him, but Dean rarely got what he wanted. It was something he'd come to accept after years of bitter disappointment.

"What do you want to do?"

 _Drink until I'm dead_ , he thought bitterly but didn't say it. Jody didn't deserve the sharp end of his tongue. Turning the ignition, Baby's rumble soothed him.

"We'll head back to the bunker. Regroup with Cas and Ketch. Hopefully they've turned up something more useful than us."

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Thomas eased open the door to the bunker soundlessly. Poking his head through the opening, he listened carefully. The lights were on but dim and it was completely silent. Of course, considering the size of the bunker, that didn't mean a thing. Slipping inside, the Englishman clicked the heavy door shut and padded softly across the mezzanine floor. He crouched and edged towards the railings, training his eyes on the library below; if Dean was here, that was where he would be. The table was clear.

Silently, Thomas made his way down the stairs, heading for the door to the garage from memory. Peeking through, he was satisfied; the Impala was gone. He'd be cautious – as always – but the likelihood was that he was alone.

Walking through the library, down the right-hand side of the table, he looked at the shelves, his gaze calculating. Past the shelves, set into an alcove, were another set of shelves, lined with books and, on the top shelf, an ornate set of intricately carved throwing axes were balanced upon a wooden stand. Judging by the layer of dust that coated the shelf, no one had been near the weapons in quite a while. Anna would be horrified, but, for Thomas, it was more of a blessing. He pulled the small transmitter from his pocket, switching it on and placing it behind the weapons stand. Moving away, he backed up to the table, checking that it couldn't be seen as he took his phone from his pocket at the same time. Switching apps, the Englishman brought up the one for the speaker.

"Hello?" he tested, maintaining a normal, conversational volume. His voice fed back through his phone, perfectly clear. He tried again, lowering his voice. It wasn't as clear but it was still audible. He couldn't imagine why they would choose to whisper in a large room which they thought was safe, but it never hurt to be prepared. After programming the transmitter to its sound detection mode, he pocketed his phone again and headed for the living quarters, keeping his footfalls light and his ears pricked.

The door to Sam's old room opened easily and Thomas stepped in, eyes surveying the organised abode. Sam probably missed this. While there weren't many personal effects cluttering up the room, there were a few. Perhaps when the business with the other one was over with, he would give Sam the opportunity to come back and get a few pieces. No…that would never do. He would want reminders of his brother and Thomas couldn't have that. Maybe he should take a few pieces now and he could sort through them. Before, he'd taken John Winchester's journal because he'd needed it; now he needed Sam's, but there were so many treasures that belonged to his ward just waiting to be explored.

Thomas began exploring the youngest Winchester's room, admiring the titles on the bookshelves – he knew Sam would be a fan of the classics – before running his fingers over the spines. He drifted to the wardrobe, opening it and staring in disapproval at the army of plaid that lined the inside. The shirts were soft but well-worn to the touch; luckily, they would never be worn again. Sam would look so smart in a properly tailored suit. Not like the cheap ones that hung on the end of the rail – an array of striped ties draped limply over the hangers. Thomas frowned and picked them off, rolling each one individually and placing them on a small bit of space on one of the shelves. When they were all lined up neatly, he closed the wardrobe, turning back towards the desk. The drawers slid open easily. He pulled Sam's journal out, knowing it would be where he'd left it last time, caressing the worn cover lightly with his thumbs. So much to learn…so many things he had yet to discover about his protégé. He'd only had time to give Sam's reflections a momentary glance during his last visit. Now, he would take his time. Learn all he could about Sam – right from his own mind.

What a beautiful thing a journal was.

Thomas turned, looking for anything else he might need. A black metal box poked out from under the bed. Crouching down, he picked it up and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was a reasonably large box with a metal latch on the front; it's lid coated in scratches and dents. Flicking up the latch, Thomas opened it slowly. His grin lit up his eyes. The box was awash with mementos – playing cards, a leaflet for Oak Park Retirement Home, a necklace, photos: Sam's keepsakes. He'd struck gold. His fingers itched to rummage through, to analyse each and every item, but the nagging voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he was on a time limit.

As he began to close the lid, one of the photos slipped and caught his eye. Pulling the small item out, he stared down at it as he closed the lid on the box. Sam and Dean were leaning back against the Impala, side by side, beers in hand as they laughed at some unknown joke. They hadn't even realised the photo was being taken; both wore the easy smiles of two brothers enjoying each other's company.

Thomas' grip tightened.

Dean was too happy. Ungrateful little bastard. He didn't deserve Sam. Didn't deserve anything! He'd ripped Lady Toni away from the people who'd loved her and he'd done it without thought and without reason. He was visionless and destroyed the dreams of those with ambition.

Taking the photo in both hands, Thomas wrenched it down the centre, separating the brothers. Placing Sam's half down on the bed, he tore at Dean, shredding it into small pieces. Dean Winchester would never interfere again; he would get what was coming to him. Scrunching up the pieces in his palm, Thomas dumped them in the trash.

Grabbing the black box and the journal, he left, leaving Sam's half of the photo on the bed. Let the bastard find it. He needed reminding that he was useless against a true Man of Letters. Thomas could go wherever he pleased, whenever he wanted and Dean could do nothing to stop him. Thomas wanted him vulnerable.

He walked back down the corridor, heading for the library – still cautious – but feeling his anger at Dean subside as he went. Climbing the stairs to the library in two swift strides, he walked down the left side of the table.

And stopped when a suitcase caught his eye.

It was strangely familiar, nondescript as it was with a hard, black shell coating the outside. Theoretically, it shouldn't even have caught his attention. Moving closer, Thomas' stomach plummeted when he saw two discreet letters engraved into its surface.

A.K.

His mouth went dry and he raced back to Sam's bedroom, grabbing the picture he'd left on the bed and putting it back in the black box under his arm. The Englishman rushed back through the bunker, unwilling to waste any more time. Yanking out his phone, he pressed it to his ear, waiting for Anna to pick up. The memory of the Rolls Royce Silver Wraith sparked through his mind and his heart froze; he'd _passed_ him. It was exactly the kind of car from the bunker's collection that _he'd_ go for. They'd been meters apart for milliseconds. The thought was chilling and sent a widespread panic blooming through him.

"Samuel is still fine, Thomas," she greeted, almost exasperated. Thomas exited the bunker, locking the door behind him.

"We have a problem."

"What is it?" she asked, alarmed by his tone.

"Ketch is here."

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

He was parched. It was all he could think about – all he could focus on. The worst part was that the open bottle of water, with its straw sticking out the top, was _right there_ – sitting on the table. Within reach. Hell, he could pick it up if he wanted to but that was all he could do with it. It was pure torture.

He'd been reduced to no more than a pet; something that relied entirely on others. It was strange to think that humans rarely thought about the impact of the devices they placed on animals. Sam swore he would never be able to look at a bitted horse the same ever again. To constantly have something foreign shoved in his mouth, compressing his tongue, stopping him from satiating the thirst that was driving him crazy, left Sam with an empathy he had never considered. He'd tried to reach up and pull it out, but his hands couldn't even get close. It was tied too securely for him to push it out with his tongue.

He needed to drink.

A hollow anger smoked inside him: not anger at Thomas – he knew the Man of Letters was doing his best to protect Sam – but at Lucifer. It was all his fault. He'd forced Thomas' hand, forced Sam's. Everything that was happening was because of him. Thomas was just trying to help.

It had been hours since Thomas had left and he hadn't even appeared when Sam had shouted for him. He couldn't wait any longer for the Englishman to come down and let him drink; he wasn't useless – he just needed to be logical. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sam looked around, scanning the objects near him, scrutinising everything. The edge of the metal post at the head of the bed caught his eye, his memory flashing back to his first day of captivity in the cellar when he'd tried to remove the blindfold. He'd nearly managed it before he'd fallen off the bed. It was the same principle now; he could do it. Shifting further up the bed, Sam aligned his cheek with the corner of the metal post and began trying to snag the edge of the cloth on it.

He had the time – he just needed the patience.

oOo

Anna sat at Thomas' laptop, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, a gold chain hanging from each arm and around the back of her neck. A fountain pen was balanced in her right hand as she made notes, copying down phone numbers and details. She heard a small grunt and flipped over to the CCTV screen. Frowning, she squinted at Sam. What on earth was he doing? He was bent over near the top of the bed, making small sliding movements. Odd boy. Flicking back onto the internet screen, she clicked onto the next page.

oOo

Sam gasped, reeling away from the bedpost when another vision pelted him. This time it was a man, his cheeks stained with tears as he wailed and pleaded. Sam bent forwards, chains rattling as he tried to move his hands up to grasp his head, squeezing his eyes shut, shaking his head to try and dislodge the images. It didn't work and he moaned in despair as the man was flung from the edge of a rooftop, the skyline behind him, his arms wind-milling almost comically as he fell into the ether.

The sickening crunch as he hit the tarmac snapped Sam from the vision.

Panting miserably, he stayed bent forward for a few minutes, trying to calm himself. The visions had been awful since Thomas had gone. The minutes crept past and slowly his heart returned to normal and his breathing evened out. Focusing himself once more, he started again, dragging his cheek up against the metal corner. He could already feel the gag beginning to loosen; he would do it. It snagged properly and he pulled hard, but it came unstuck from the post.

Just a few more goes.

oOo

Pleased with her findings, Anna closed down the internet and set her pen to one side. Looking at her watch, she calculated the time. It'd been an hour since Thomas had called; it would be another three and a half before he got home. Peering back at the CCTV footage, she glared as realisation of what Sam was doing set in.

That wouldn't do at all.

oOo

The cloth hooked onto the corner and stayed. Stilling himself, Sam concentrated and manoeuvred his head carefully, relaxing his jaw and pushing with his tongue. Slowly, centimetre by centimetre, he pulled up, feeling the knot in his mouth edge out, rolling over his bottom lip. Giving it a final tug, the cloth fell out, hanging loosely around his neck.

"Finally," he groaned, straightening up and sighing deeply through his mouth, eyes closed. The red behind his eyelids blackened suddenly and, when he opened them, he was in pitch black. "Oh c'mon," he grumbled, blinking rapidly. The lights didn't come back on. What the hell? Had the bulb gone? Was it…

No.

His heart thumped against his ribs. He was fine. He was. Thomas had made sure he was safe. Lucifer didn't know where he was. He couldn't.

Could he?

Sam waited, barely daring to breathe. He didn't want to be alone and his desperation grew. The silence pressed in on him, squeezing around him as he strained his hearing. Waited.

Nothing.

Beat by beat, his heart slowed as nothing happened. He licked his cracked lips and turned his head blindly towards the table. Shuffling up the bed carefully, Sam nudged his foot along the floor, trying to find the table leg. His foot bumped it gently and he stopped. Reaching out a hand, he felt the edge of the table top with his fingers but couldn't feel the water bottle; it was too far in. Standing up, Sam reached out his hand blindly, the chain connected to his wrist clinking in the silence. A loud burst of static blasted into the cellar as his fingers brushed the plastic. Sam jumped violently, his hand jerking, knocking the bottle over.

"No!" The sound of the precious water trickling off the table in wet spatters undercut the static.

All of that for nothing.

oOo

Anna bared her teeth in a grin as she watched Sam through the camera's night vision capabilities. That would teach him not to defy them. Thomas was driving – if he happened to see that the lights were off, she'd claim a short power surge. She'd put them back on when he got home. For now though, Samuel could stay alone in the dark and wait. Pressing a few buttons, she increased the sound on the static, satisfied to see her captive trying to lift his hands up to cover his ears to block the uncomfortable sound but the chains connected to his wrists were far too short.

Her grin spread when the music of his first scream came through the speakers.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The slamming of the Impala's door reverberated around the garage as Dean trudged back into the bunker, Jody trailing behind him. The empty results of their trek weighed heavily between them and Dean wanted nothing more than to open – and finish – the Johnny Walker Red that was lurking in the kitchen. Until Cas and Ketch got back, they were leadless and, even when they did return, there wasn't going to be much more they could do that night anyway. Dean knew deep down that that wasn't the attitude he should have but he was just so damned _tired._ Tired of being wrong, tired of having nothing work.

He just wanted his brother. That wasn't much to ask for.

Walking through the war room and up to the library, the hunter felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He stopped, holding out a hand to block Jody. She looked up at him, confused.

"What's wrong?"

"Somethin' ain't right," he said quietly, drawing his gun. He moved forwards cautiously, hearing Jody draw her own weapon; she trusted his gut. They split up: she headed towards the kitchen while he went to the bedrooms. Each footstep was careful and measured, placed with caution to avoid making needless sound. Dean listened hard but heard nothing, yet the unease inside him didn't ease. Something was wrong. Peering inside his own bedroom, he saw it was empty – left in the exact state he'd left it in that morning. Moving on, he headed down the corridor, the feeling intensifying as he got closer to Sam's room. It was probably nothing – nerves and strain after a long few days.

As he got closer, he saw that the door was ajar. It shouldn't have been; he'd shut it. Tightening the grip on his gun, Dean pushed open the door with the flat of his palm and switched on the lights.

Empty.

And still his instincts screamed at him, getting louder as he walked in. He lowered the gun as he looked around.

"There's no one here, Dean," Jody said as she stepped in the doorway. She watched as Dean bent down, pulling out small pieces of paper like confetti from the trash. He turned them over and swallowed visibly. He held out his palm, showing her the small fragments of a broken photo. Dean's face was on one of the pieces.

"He was here," Dean whispered. "That bastard was here. And we missed him."

oOo

 **I quite enjoyed doing the near-misses in this one! Question is: how close can they get? =D**

 **Please review!**


	22. On the Hunt

**Thank you to everyone who is reading/reviewing and following!**

 **Quick warning: Be advised that there is one scene which is more graphic than usual. If you wish to skip it, it's halfway through the section which I have made the '** oOo' **BOLD at the beginning and end.**

oOo

 _"I only see the truth through all these fears."_

 _\- Here by Me, 3 Doors Down_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

 _Don't scream. If you scream, he'll hear. He'll come._

Sam bit his lip, blood drip onto his tongue – it was the first moisture he'd felt for what felt like days – as he burrowed his head beneath the pillow. Still the static resonated, louder and louder, drilling into his head. The mattress and the pillow made barely any difference, but he couldn't raise his hands to cover his ears and he had to do _something_.

It had been hours.

Hours of continuous darkness and white noise pressing around him, interjected with visions of blood and death and pain. It was like being back in the cage all over again. He couldn't stop it and not even screaming for Thomas had made the Englishman materialise. That brought its own panic; why wasn't Thomas coming? Had something happened? Sam knew he couldn't do this alone; he _needed_ Thomas: as much as he had ever needed Dean. That opened up a whole new level of his grief, throwing in an overwhelming guilt that stole the air from his lungs. He'd never needed anyone more than his brother. But Dean had left him and Thomas was all he had.

He couldn't take much more; he was going to lose it.

Just like that, the static ended and the lights flickered on. Suddenly all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing. Blinking rapidly against the invasion of light that peeked in beneath the edge of the pillow, Sam peered out from underneath, afraid to lift his head, just like he'd done when he was little and thought that if he showed his face the monster would appear. Only, this time, that monster was real.

Looking to the door, he waited, hoping with everything he had that Thomas was going to appear.

oOo

Anna moved away from the laptop, having shut down the cellar's speaker's audio controls and went to the door, opening it for Thomas. Behind him, it had grown dark and his face was pale and drawn in the light shining from the house. He cradled a black metal box under one arm and a book in his other hand.

"You look exhausted," she commented sympathetically, taking the items off him and helping him to remove his jacket.

"I'm alright. How is Sam?" he asked, brushing off her concern with a tired smile. Walking over to the laptop, he peered at the camera footage, a concerned frown marring his forehead when he saw the hunter lying in a bizarre position with his head beneath his pillow. "How long has he been like that?"

"A little while," Anna shrugged. "I'm assuming he found the light too bright and is trying to sleep but I didn't want to turn it off. He hasn't made a sound for a while."

Thomas nodded, too weary to probe further. Sam was in once piece and nothing drastic had happened. He picked up Sam's journal, thumbing it lightly.

"I need to go through Sam's journal and prepare the spell for the final few visions; I know we've had to change our plans but we can't do a lot until tomorrow so I'd like to continue with them anyway," he explained, taking a seat at the desk. He looked up, surprised, when Anna plucked the journal from his grasp.

"No, Thomas. What you _need_ to do is go and sleep. You need to be well-rested for tomorrow. I can do the spell for you; it's not a problem. Just show me what you need me to do," Anna instructed, tucking the journal under her arm, away from Thomas' reach. He was going to argue, but one quirk of her eyebrows changed his mind. Pulling out a tome from his desk drawer, Thomas flicked through to a bookmarked page.

"It's this one," he showed her, pointing to the top half of the page. "You'll need to look through his journal for names of people he knows and has a connection with – living people. Be careful with the spell: the bottom half of the page is the same but far more potent; I don't want to do that to Sam."

"I can manage – I'll follow it as I did last time. Now, go on," Anna chided, ushering him from the room. He left, taking the odd black box with him. She listened, taking a seat back at the desk, as he went upstairs, setting the spell tome on the table, her gaze lingering on the second half of the page. She'd wait until he was asleep properly before she started.

Turning back to the laptop, her lips pressed into a thin line. The way Samuel was lying, his head jammed under the pillow, curled into a foetal position on his side, made her wish she could go down there. Her fingers itched to press down on that pillow. He wouldn't be able to stop her – not with his hands chained to his waist as they were. It would take a few minutes, ones that she would savour, listening to the end of his pitiful moaning. It would be such a sweet sound.

Not yet though; she would have to be patient.

Sighing, she flipped open his journal and began a cursory read.

It was time to find out what made Samuel Winchester tick.

oOo

Thomas eased his shoes off, placing them carefully by the door as he loosened his tie, slipping it over his head and hanging it from his tie rack. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt as he sat wearily on his bed with Sam's box in front of him. While he was exhausted, he was dying to know what Sam considered precious enough to keep in a world where he didn't keep many possessions.

Opening the lid reverently, he let it fall backwards gently, revealing its treasures. He began pulling out each item one at a time, holding each one up, feeling them between his fingers, inspecting them closely. The leaflet for the retirement home – Oak Park – was the newest item in the box; it still had that crisp smell that recently printed booklets came with. Its cover was immaculate and free from creases. Perhaps it had something to do with a case Sam had worked? Thomas put it to one side and picked up a simple gold ring. It was large – a man's ring – and unadorned with any design or stones: a wedding ring. It was smooth and well-cared for but was far too big when he slipped it onto his own finger. It was most likely John Winchester's.

Next came a curious object. It was on a piece of black string, the kind that some necklaces were made with, and had a strange head carved in clay hanging from it. It was bulky and crudely made – similar to something a child would make in school – with two long flat ears and a pointed face that looked almost like some forgotten deity. It was a most peculiar object: Thomas couldn't imagine Sam – or the other one – making such a thing in school and valuing it enough to keep it. One day, when this was all behind them and they had their peace, he would ask about it. His mind flitted back to the present momentarily: he would need to make sure Sam go another round of his concoction tomorrow as well; the lad would need to keep taking it until Thomas was certain that Sam's emotional connection to him was firmly cemented. He'd given him enough in the water to see him through for the next day or so; he should be desperate for Thomas' company by the morning.

Placing everything back in the box, he closed the lid, knowing he would have time later to go through the rest. After tomorrow, Ketch wouldn't be a worry.

oOo

Jody. Claire. Alex. Eileen.

Interesting how Samuel seemed to have surrounded himself with women in recent years. Anna was hardly surprised; hunters were base animals after all. They had base needs. He didn't speak of them that way, but he was probably deceiving himself, making it seem different to how it was. A typical hot-blooded male.

She wrote their names out carefully on small slips of paper, ready to be thrown into the fire when the rest of the spell was ready. Anna looked again at the ingredients. It was intriguing how the two spells only had one difference: the regular one used juniper berries whereas the 'potent' one (as Thomas put it) required nightshade. Luckily, they had both. Anna had no idea what the second version would do, but she hoped it made Sam suffer. She imagined him writhing in despair, watching those he cared for dying in horrific ways – the more horrific, the better as far as she was concerned.

Picking up the vial of purple liquid which she'd used the first time Thomas had had her prepare the spell, she dribbled it over the bowlful of leaves and twigs.

" _Et ignis consumet,_ " she chanted as the bowl caught fire, this time flaring blue rather than green. She dropped the slips of paper into the flames, smiling with grim satisfaction as they caught alight, curling over and disintegrating. Leaving it to crackle and burn, she turned to the laptop screen, wondering how long it would take to work – hopefully before she retired for the evening. She could wait. Turning back to the spell tome, she started flicking through it, looking for anything else that could be useful later on.

 **oOo**

Finally, Sam pulled his head out from under the pillow and rested back on it, staring up at the ceiling. He was exhausted. Between his grief, his fear and his near-constant state of heightened anxiety, he had left his breaking point drifting in the past a while ago. He simply had nothing left to give. All he wanted was to sleep.

Letting his eyes drift closed, he tried his best to quieten the noise inside his head. Yet, he couldn't find anything peaceful to focus on. All the things he loved were gone. Taken.

 _Where do I want to be?_

Sam let his mind wander, trying to answer that question. Slowly, like rain dribbling down a window pane, an image painted itself in his mind. A picture of himself sat on a porch, a book on his lap and Thomas sat opposite him, smiling fondly.

His eyes snapped open. That wasn't what he wanted.

 _Why not?_

Look what he's done.

 _Protected you. Kept you safe. Put himself in danger. All of it: for you_.

The depravation, the restraints…

 _Done out of necessity to make you see the truth. He would never hurt you. Deep down, you know it's true._

I can't live like this.

 _It's not forever._

Sam lay there, staring up at the blank ceiling, trying to fight the longing that rose up in him. He didn't know why he felt it – a part of him knew it wasn't natural but the soothing that came with the thought of the Englishman – much like the feeling when he would think of Dean – washed over him, draining away the doubt and the desire to defy.

Before he could linger on it, agony lanced through his temple, spearing behind his eyes. He gasped, eyes wide but the ceiling was gone, replaced by a wide redbrick room. He was standing at its centre, a metal surgical table in front of him. The edge of the metal was cool beneath his fingertips as his body leaned forwards, the digits tapping out a disjointed rhythm, the blade in his right hand clicking against the metal. There was silence except for a gasped choking, the sound hitching and gurgling. It matched the jerking, convulsive movements of the body lying on the table in front of him. The pale skin was barely visible beneath the red wash of blood that covered it. She was naked, huge strips of flesh missing from her abdomen. Sam felt his stomach roil and his throat constrict.

She was still alive: her skin flayed piece by agonising piece.

He didn't want to look at the poor woman's face, didn't want to see her expression twisted in excruciating pain as she choked through the pain. But Lucifer turned their gaze up and Sam felt his mouth widen in a grotesque parody of a smile. Her hair was matted, plastered to the sides of her face, blood bubbling and frothing from her lips. Dark, ugly bruises were barely distinguishable beneath the blood that marred her swollen cheeks. Wide, terrified brown eyes fixed on him and Sam howled as recognition set in.

"Please…stop…" Jody gasped, splattering from her toothless gums.

 **oOo**

Oh, this was…exceptional. Anna had no idea was he was seeing, but Samuel's reaction was priceless. She leaned forward, turning down the speakers – Thomas didn't need to be disturbed by his piercing shrieks – as she sat back and enjoyed the little wretch writhe in the midst of his vision, unable to escape it.

This was only the first: it was going to be a long night for Samuel.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

"Is this the first time you've noticed that Thomas has been here?" Ketch asked. They were sat around the library table, the fragments of the photo laid out in front of them. Dean and Castiel sat opposite Jody and Ketch, a half-empty tumbler in Dean's hand next to a slowly disappearing bottle of whiskey. Dean glared at the Englishman.

"I was kinda preoccupied with the idea that my _brother had been abducted_. Noticin' somethin' wrong here wasn't high on my list of 'things to notice'," he growled, hating how Ketch was making him feel incompetent. "He wasn't taken from here."

"That may be true, but, if Thomas could get in undetected this time, I would assume he has done it before. He would want to understand his target. Is anything missing?" Ketch pressed, ignoring Dean's look and tone. He wasn't interested in emotions; he wanted facts.

"Sam kept a box of stuff – photos, Dad's wedding ring – stuff that meant somethin' to him. I can't find it," Dean murmured, clearly bothered by the fact that it was missing. That box was a part of who Sam was; he didn't know what else his baby brother kept in it – it was personal. To have it taken was a complete invasion of his privacy.

"Does Sam keep a journal?"

"What does that have to do with anythin'?" Dean frowned.

"If he does, I imagine that's gone too," Ketch explained. Jody rose.

"I'll go look," she offered.

"He kept it in his desk drawer," Dean called as she left. "Why would he take them?"

"Think: have you noticed anything else go missing?" Ketch ignored him. Dean huffed, frustrated by Ketch's lack of answers, but mulled over the question. His hand stilled on the glass tumbler as he glanced at Cas.

"Wait here." He got up and left, heading out to the garage. Jody came back in a few moments later, empty-handed.

"It wasn't there," she confirmed as Dean came back, stalking past them and heading for the bedrooms. She frowned after her. "What's he doin'?"

"Looking for something else that's missing," Cas explained, aware of the irony of the statement.

"Well?" Ketch prodded as Dean came back a deep scowl marring his forehead.

"My dad's journal," he answered as he tipped the reminder of his whiskey down his throat. "I haven't seen it since before Sam got taken. He had it last and there's no way he would've lost it. I don't get it."

"As I said: Thomas would want to understand his target. Given the nature of what's happened, I suspect that Thomas has become…obsessive. I would assume the journals went first – he wants to know Sam, beyond the captor/captive relationship. He will be studying your brother, learning all he can. The journals allow him to do that."

"So why come back for the box?" Jody asked. Ketch clasped his hands together, his thumb idly rubbing at the crucifix tattoo on the back of his right hand as he thought.

"That, I believe, is key to our understanding of their relationship," Ketch replied. Dean visibly bristled.

"They don't have a _relationship_ or a _connection_ ; the bastard took my brother and that's it," he snarled.

"Hardly. Clearly, it's not something you wish to consider, Dean, but we must speculate on what has been happening – both when Sam was in England and in the last few weeks," Ketch chided, meeting Dean's scowled with a frank expression. "From what we'd gathered in England, following my questioning of James amongst other things, Thomas appeared to fulfil the role of a caregiver. He rarely aided any of the torture that Sam was subjected to; that was James' job. Instead, Toni had Thomas see to Sam's wounds – a practical move, considering Thomas' medical experience. We can therefore assume Sam came to associate Thomas with safety.

"Thomas is most likely using that to his advantage. We don't know what his plan is or even what he has been doing, but I suspect that he has been trying to indoctrinate your brother into whatever his plan is," Ketch continued, dread filling Dean the more he spoke. "If he can nurture those positive associations, Sam will do anything Thomas wants him to. Sam's mindset, from what Castiel has told me, was already fragile. It wouldn't take a lot to break him completely. I would even argue that taking the box could suggest that Thomas has succeeded in doing that – or that he's close. He might need more…ammunition, as it were, from Sam's life to use against him. Or, the items could be a sign of trust; Thomas got them to bring a level of comfort for your brother. I doubt it though; any associations to here – and you – would probably be detrimental to whatever he is hoping to do."

They sat in stunned silence, letting Ketch's speculations sink in. Dean skipped the glass and necked a mouthful of whiskey straight from the bottle. Jody took it off him and followed suit, letting the drink burn down her throat.

"Of course, there's another reason why he would come back," Ketch pointed out. Dean locked eyes with him. "He's goading _you_. It's a display of dominance: he can invade your home, your territory and there's nothing you can do about it."

"Oh, he's so wrong about that," Dean growled, taking another mouthful of the fiery liquid, "when I'm through with him, he'll be beggin' to die."

"Be that as it may, empty threats are pointless at this moment," Ketch remarked, almost rolling his eyes. "What we need to do is to find him."

"No shit."

"What did you find in Emporia?" Jody interrupted, redirecting them away from Dean's sarcasm.

"We identified the symbol and confirmed that it was made there," Cas replied, trying to help cool the tension that was rising between Dean and Ketch. The Englishman remained completely unfazed by Dean's sour look, simply nodding his agreement with Castiel's answer.

"How's that supposed to help?" Dean grumbled. Jody frowned at him; she could understand his frustrations and how much what Ketch had said would hurt but getting drunk and petulant wasn't going to help. She tugged the bottle out of his hand and put it on the floor beside her, out of his reach.

"Get your head outta your ass, Dean. I know you don't like what's bein' said but it's the most logic we've had for weeks. We need to use it so shut up and listen," she barked, staring him down until he dropped his gaze. His jaw worked as he seethed but he said nothing. Jody looked to Ketch, nodding for him to continue.

"While we have large gaps in our knowledge regarding Thomas' motives, we have enough that we can start to narrow down where he is," Ketch explained. He pulled out a notepad and began scribing a list as he spoke. "We know that Sam is being held on a farm and it's not out near Jefferson City – that was most definitely a red herring which suggests to me that we need to be looking in the opposite direction. Did Sam tell you anything about the farm? How many people were there, whether there were animals or crops, that sort of thing."

"No. He didn't say anythin'."

"I would doubt that Thomas would want to house Sam anywhere near people he doesn't know or trust; it gives him greater control over the situation. Let's assume then that they not on a working farm. Thomas wouldn't want to travel far – that would mean leaving Sam with Anna and, while I'm sure he would take more than adequate precautions, he will be paranoid. Have you got a map of Kansas?"

Jody hurried to a shelf and picked one up. She laid it flat on the table as the three men rose.

"Right, so, we're here," Ketch drew a circle around Lebanon with his pen, "and Emporia is…here." He circled again. He held the pen poised, his gaze thoughtful. "Where did Mr Tupper live?"

"Here, in Carlyle," Jody replied, pointing to it on the map. He drew another circle. Again, he straightened up and studied the map, tapping his pen against his lip.

"Lebanon is the anomaly in this picture," he explained. "Thomas wants to be close enough to be able to travel here but he wouldn't want to be close enough that you could find him easily. The rest of the activity is primarily down here. Therefore…" he drew a wide circle, encasing Emporia and Carlyle within it, "this is our preliminary perimeter. We're going to start looking up farm properties within this circle."

"That's a helluva lot of farms," Jody remarked, her eyebrows lifting.

"True so the sooner we begin, the better. We'll need to focus on disused ones or ones used as holiday destinations. Once we have a list, we'll be able to narrow it down further based on location," Ketch confirmed. "We also need to contact Mr Tupper's employer – they must have a record somewhere of where he went on his business trip. That will also help. Ms Mills, I would suggest you do that whilst Castiel and I begin narrowing it down and Dean goes and get some rest."

"Like hell am I –"

"You are no use to us at the moment," Ketch snapped, turning cold, hard eyes on the hunter. "You're intoxicated and frustrated. That's detrimental for us if we're going to try to use people's good natures to help us find your brother. You've been driving for two days and barely slept thanks to that tornado. You need to be sharp for when we go to find Sam – not sleep deprived and useless. It makes you a liability. I do not go into any situation with a team that is likely to put me in danger."

Dean stared at him incredulously. He looked to Cas and Jody, waiting for them to step in and defend him. Both were conveniently looking anywhere but at him.

"Fine," he snarled, lurching to his feet. "Come wake me when you got somethin'."

The hunter stormed from the room before Ketch could reply, his pride wounded even though he knew, deep down, that the Englishman was right.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Sam jumped, his frayed nerves sparking panic through his chest when he heard the cellar door creak open. He'd spent the night being tormented by more visions – ones of Claire and Alex and Eileen – where he was forced to watch those he cared for die slowly and horrifically. Unlike the other visions, these hadn't cut out; they'd been long and agonising, every second lasting for hours. His dry throat was sore from screaming and begging as he watched, the sound of his own laughter ringing in his ears.

He'd killed them.

The underlying knowledge that they were suffering because he had let Lucifer in, let him take control, was the worst part. They could have been saved if he hadn't been selfish. Because they'd known him, Lucifer had hunted them. Because they'd been kind to him, Lucifer put them through the worst torment he could devise. And for each of them, he told them _why_ he was doing it.

He'd lost everything. Except Thomas.

The only thing that gave him the tiniest shred of hope was that Thomas would help him escape and put things right. Sam would never get his loved ones back, but he could end the suffering of everyone else. He didn't deserve to have them back, not after what he'd done.

Sam struggled to sit up as light pooled onto the floor by the entrance, quickly disappearing when the door was shut and Thomas descended, a tray balanced in his hands. His tripping heart slowed, easing the tension from his shoulders when Thomas smiled at him softly.

"Lunch time, Sam – sorry it's a bit late," he greeted, keeping the smile plastered in place, even though concern welled inside him. Sam looked awful: his eyes were bright – almost feverish – with anxiety, his skin had a sickly pallor and he was sweating.

"Lunch?" Sam rasped, his voice crackling. "Thomas, you've been gone for days!"

"What? Sam, it's been a few hours; I left you at breakfast," Thomas lied smoothly as he sat on the chair and uncapped one of the water bottles that he'd brought in. He'd mixed in a double dose of his concoction, shaking both bottles until it had dissipated. He was perhaps being overcautious – the dose from the previous day was clearly still working.

"It can't have been – you…I…" Sam hesitated, clearly unsure but unable to pinpoint why.

"Here," Thomas offered the straw in the water bottle and he watched as his ward sucked on it greedily. "Slow down, Sam – you'll make yourself sick," he chided, almost pulling the straw away but Sam followed the movement and continued to drink, slowing the pace until he'd finished the whole thing. It was a good thing he'd brought two bottles down. "Why do you think it's been days?"

"That's what it felt like," Sam murmured, his voice a bit smoother thanks to the water. He licked his dry lips. "I thought something had happened, that Lucifer had…" His voice trailed off.

Concern. Oh, this was excellent – better than he'd expected. Thomas fought to keep his excitement cloaked.

"Had what? Found me?" he finished for Sam. His ward nodded. Thomas gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Sam; you needn't worry. I do have some news but, first, I do have a concern."

Sam frowned in confusion. Thomas lifted a hand and tugged gently on the gag still hanging around his neck.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, guilt etched across his face. "I was just so damned thirsty. I got it off so that I could have some of the water you left but then the lights went out and I knocked it over anyway."

Thomas stilled. Anna hadn't mentioned anything about the lights.

"The lights went out?"

Sam nodded. "When they went out, the static started too."

"Have you been having visions?" Thomas pressed, putting what Sam had said to one side for the moment. Maybe the visions had been stronger than he intended. Sam nodded. "Do you know what they're of?"

"I see Lucifer," Sam replied quietly, lowering his gaze. "I'm guess I seeing what he's doing. Out there – in the real world."

Silence hung in the room as Thomas waited before answering, his silence confirming Sam's fears.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Thomas offered quietly, stretching out a hand and patting Sam's thigh comfortingly. He didn't flinch at the contact – yet another good sign. Sam shuddered, tears welling in his eyes.

"The things I've seen him do – the people he's hurt…" Sam's voice broke before he could finish and he swallowed hard, trying his best to control his despair.

"I know, Sam, I know. But we'll make it right. I'm sorry you've had to see that, I truly am. You're protected from them when Anna is around – she's able to block them, which is why you didn't have any while we were down here with you. I hadn't realised how severe they'd gotten."

"What does it mean?"

"I think it shows the connection between you and this world is beginning to loosen. But the fact that the lights went off, coupled with the research I've been doing, concerns me. I need to go and make some arrangements before I come back and tell you what we're going to do next," Thomas explained as he reached up and untied the cloth from around Sam's neck. His ward looked at him, his eyes wide and pleading.

"Please don't – not again, Thomas. I got it off hours ago and I've not said anything – you know I haven't. You can trust me. Please," he begged. Thomas chewed his lip, staring at Sam thoughtfully. Perhaps it was time to test Sam's loyalty.

"Alright," he said, putting the cloth to one side. Leaning forward, he produced his keys and unlocked the chain linking Sam's wrists to his waist, but left them connected to each other. "I'm trusting you, Sam. Please don't let me down."

"I won't," Sam replied, his tone emphatic.

"Good. I'll be back in a bit. I want you to have eaten by the time I come back, alright?" He instructed, pointing to the sandwich and fruit on the tray next to the other bottle of water. Sam nodded. Thomas patted his knee and rose, pocketing his keys. He left, locking the cellar behind him as he walked back across the lawn to the house.

He climbed the steps and walked in, making his way into the kitchen where Anna had laid out breakfast. She was busy putting various items into a cool bag, but she stopped when he came in.

"How is he?" she asked politely as she poured his tea. Thomas pursed his lips, a pensive frown flitting across his face.

"Troubled," he replied, running a hand over the fine hairs of his stubble. "Did anything happen with the lights yesterday?"

Anna sat down and began buttering her toast as she shook her head.

"Not that I remember, why?"

"There were no power surges?"

"If there was, it must have been brief – I didn't have the lights on during the day, except in the cellar of course, so it would have been minutes if it had," she lied effortlessly, her tone perfectly normal.

"How strange. Sam said that the lights went out and he heard static. Did you hear any coming through the speakers?"

"I didn't hear a thing from them, I'm afraid. What does that mean?"

Thomas stirred his tea idly with a spoon, watching it create a miniature whirlpool.

"I don't know exactly. I can only assume that the spell which created the visions and the concoction in his drink reacted together, creating an anomaly within his hallucinations. It's fine; we won't need to recreate the visions again so that shouldn't be a problem."

He didn't suspect a thing and there was no way that Samuel would even consider that she had done it to him. It was…pleasing to know what she was able to do undetected; it left plenty of avenues open for the future. Having spent the evening going through that rather fascinating spell tome, she had more than one trick up her sleeve.

"Did you bring up the restraints we'll need for travel?" she asked before taking a bite of her toast.

"No. I don't think they'll be necessary," Thomas replied. Anna stopped chewing. She stared at him incredulously before swallowing.

"What on earth do you mean 'not necessary'?"

"Sam is much more cooperative – he's not going to be a problem. You said yourself that you hadn't heard anything from the cellar and he got his gag off yesterday. He's terrified of Lucifer and I need to nurture the trust between us. Being heavy-handed now isn't going to be conducive for that," he explained as he ate.

"You can't seriously be considering moving him without any sort of restraints?! Thomas, that's madness – you can't trust him _that_ much!" she exclaimed. There was no way she was going to be in a car with the brute loose.

"Of course not," Thomas retorted mildly. "But I don't think a full set of irons is necessary. To be perfectly honest, I think I'm going to have more trouble getting him out of the cellar than anything."

Inwardly, Anna seethed. She didn't want that wretch comfortable; she wanted him to suffer – strapped down, immobilised and cramped. Silent and out of the way was exactly how she wanted him. At the very least. A growing part of her didn't want to put up with him at all. That part was expanding, swelling within her. She wanted to stamp him out. Permanently. She couldn't help but imagine waiting for Thomas to get out of the car, Samuel lying on his side, tightly bound, on the back seat behind her. She would wait a moment, watch Thomas go into the rest stop, before reaching back and jabbing a needle into one of his veins. She would depress the plunger slowly, taking her time, letting the air bubble ooze out of the syringe and into his blood stream. It would take a few moments; he'd buck and squirm, moaning pitifully before he finally stilled. And she'd watch every second of it with pleasure.

But the image of Thomas' plan coming to fruition overshadowed the fantasy. She wanted Sam gone, but she needed to see Thomas' work completed just as much as he did. For that to happen, they needed the little nuisance. His time would come eventually. She was a patient woman.

"Are you at least going to gag him?" she calmly inquired, controlling her tone, letting the image fade. "Blindfold him? We've put so much emphasis on keeping him quiet so that he thinks Lucifer won't find him that not doing so now when we're moving him will be detrimental." Plus, there was no way she wanted to sit in a car with him for ten hours when he had the ability to make conversation.

"He'll be blindfolded, yes; I don't want him to know where we are or where we're going. I'm not gagging him though. He's proven to me that he can be trusted," Thomas answered calmly. Anna fought to keep herself civil but it was proving difficult.

"I think that you're making a mistake, Thomas. We'll have to stop for rest breaks and I dread to think what will happen. Ten hours is a long time in a car – longer considering he's not been out of that cellar properly for weeks. Think about what happened last time," she remarked, gesturing to the yellowing bruises on his face from his broken nose.

"That was before. He's different now. I think you're worrying over nothing," Thomas smiled, his flippancy irritating her.

"Mark my words, something _will_ happen." She would make sure it did.

Thomas sighed. "We'll be taking most of our belongings with us anyway, Anna, so if – and that's a big _if_ – something does go wrong, we'll be prepared. The last thing Sam wants is to leave in the same way he arrived; I can guarantee that he will do whatever he can to avoid a repeat performance. Now," he ended the conversation, wiping his hands on his napkin, "I'll start packing the car before I head back down to him. Moving Sam will be the last thing we do before we go."

Anna nodded silently as he got up and left, missing the glare which pierced his back. Resentment seared hot within her; Thomas _always_ listened to her. That he wasn't this time was Sam's fault. It was yet another strike that she needed to add to his list of misdemeanours.

It looked like she was going to get the chance to try out her new tricks sooner than she'd thought.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

As much as he didn't want to admit it, Dean felt a lot better having slept for a few hours. He hadn't thought he would, but it would seem that stress, forty-eight hours on the go and bad whiskey combined to make one hell of a knock out combination. He would never admit it to Ketch though; Dean was still seething at the Englishman's patronising nature. He was not a child – he was a damned good hunter and he was not going to be side-lined again.

Yanking on a clean shirt, he walked towards the library, almost bumping into Jody as he rounded the corner.

"We got something!" Before he had a chance to say anything, she grabbed his hand and pulled him eagerly towards the library, her eyes alight. His heart tripped at her words as he hurried after her. Castiel and Ketch were both stood up, looking down at the map, the pen back in Ketch's hand.

"What've you got?" Dean asked eagerly, noting the palpable difference in the whole atmosphere.

"We've found it – the farmhouse," Cas replied, giving one of his rare smiles.

"What?! Where is it?" Dean looked down at the map, leaning on the table. Ketch jabbed a finger to one point. Dean looked at the name: Geneva.

"We've been working our way through the lists we created last night and began cross referencing against Thomas and Anna's names and aliases. Nothing was coming of it until we received a call back from an associate of another man on our list. He'd heard that a neighbouring farm had been leased to a man named Magwitch," Dean looked at Ketch questioningly, "– another character from Great Expectations which is where Thomas got his previous alias from."

 _Finally_. They had something.

Dean studied the map.

"That's a four hour drive from here," he calculated before looking around the small group. "Pack up: we leave in five."

All of them nodded, even Ketch. They would get a plan going on the way, but, right now, they needed to move and move fast.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Thomas had come down twice, in the last half an hour, murmuring a few reassuring words and offering praise when Sam had eaten, but he'd primarily gone to the shelf and the metal cabinet, packing a range of items. The white pyjamas disappeared into a black duffel bag and the chains, handcuffs and straps went into another. Sam's anxiety grew as Thomas worked. He'd asked what the Englishman was doing, but Thomas had simply told him to be patient.

Now he paced nervously alongside the bed, brushing a hand back through his hair. Something was going on. It wasn't good – that much he knew. That Thomas wasn't telling him made it worse. He _needed_ to know what was making the Englishman pack. Was he leaving? Was he giving up on Sam? The thought made his stomach plummet into the floor and his lunch threaten to reappear. Somewhere, deep within him, he loathed what he felt; he should've been stronger, able to take on anything alone. Yet, he was weak and he knew it.

The door creaked open and Sam's gaze whipped up to watch Thomas enter again. This time he carried another bottle of water in his hands.

"Thomas, _please_. What the hell is going on?" Sam implored, not even waiting until the Englishman was properly in the room.

"Take a seat, Sam; drink this," Thomas instructed softly, motioning to the bed. Sam did as he was told, taking the water and drinking. Even after the other two bottles, he still felt parched. He could feel the chilled liquid sliding down his oesophagus, fanning out inside him as though it was rain spattering on cracked ground, bringing it back to life. He kept his eyes on Thomas as he sat in the chair opposite. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his elbows as Sam stopped drinking, holding the bottle between his hands.

"Now," Thomas began, his tone grave enough to send a chill through Sam. "In light of the research I've been conducting and the advanced nature of your visions, Anna and I have decided that it's become necessary for us to go."

Sam stared at him in stunned silence, his heart thumping hard and fast.

"You're going?" he murmured, eyes wide, hurt. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't do this on his own!

"No, no, no, Sam! You misunderstand me," Thomas replied quickly, shaking his head. Relief pooled inside Sam, but his heart didn't stop thumping. He sipped at the water again, trying to calm his nerves. "We're worried that this location is compromised; we need to go somewhere else. Somewhere safer."

Blood roared in his ears. Sam shook his head slowly, feeling almost like he was disconnecting from himself, like the movement wasn't really controlled by him.

"If we leave, he'll find me," he whispered. He hated the four walls of the cellar but he was safe here. Leaving the confined space had once filled his every waking thought, but now the notion filled him with terror. He couldn't do it. Despite his rising panic, he felt his heart begin to slow.

"He won't. I'll keep you safe, I promise. But I can't do that here anymore," Thomas insisted.

"I can't leave. I can't," Sam repeated, blinking slowly. He gulped down more of the water, wetting his dry mouth again. A wooziness was filling him, stuffing his head with cotton.

"You must, Sam. I know you're afraid but we must go now before Lucifer realises where we are," Thomas replied, his voice disjointed, far away. Sam looked at him, a confused frown etching into his brow. He looked down at the water in his hands.

"What did you do?" he asked, hearing his voice echo, the end of his sentence slurring slightly. Thomas gently took the water from him and reattached the chain between his wrists and waist.

"It's going to be alright, Sam; I've just given you a small something to help calm your nerves, that's all. It's absolutely nothing for you to worry about," Thomas soothed as he disconnected the chain linking Sam's ankle to the wall. He grasped his ward's upper arms firmly and helped pull him up.

"No…" Sam moaned, trying to twist from his grip, but his movements were sluggish and uncoordinated.

"Hush, Sam; trust me. It's all going to be fine. We're going to take a short walk to the car where Anna is waiting for us. I'm going to protect you: _nothing_ is going to happen," he explained, keeping his tone calm and reassuring as he pulled Sam towards the steps leading up. Sam took small shuffling steps, his stride shortened by the chain between his ankles. He barely fought; the sedative was working its way through his system, just as it was intended. Thomas hadn't wanted to resort to chemical compliancy, but he didn't have time to coax Sam out using reason. If he knew Ketch, he would be hot on their trail and they needed to put as much distance between themselves and the farmhouse as possible.

They climbed the steps and emerged out into the sunlight, Sam blinking owlishly against the bright light. Thomas kept a tight grip on his arm but it was almost unnecessary; Sam didn't try to pull away. In fact, he was walking as close as he could to the Englishman. They approached the car, the back passenger doors already open, whereupon Thomas helped Sam slide up into the seats.

"Good lad, lie down for me," Thomas praised, gently pushing the younger man down so that he was lying curled on his side across the backseats. He placed a pillow beneath Sam's head and produced a strip of black cloth. "I'm going to put this on Sam – just in case Lucifer has got any semblance of a connection left; I don't want him to know where we're going," he explained as he held it aloft. Sam nodded slowly but said nothing as Thomas draped the cloth over his eyes and tied it gently behind his head. Finally, Thomas placed a blanket over his prune form, tucking it in around his shoulders. "Try to rest if you can; it's going to be a long trip," Thomas murmured as he smoothed back Sam's hair before checking the child-locks were engaged and shutting the door. He climbed up into the driver's seat and smiled at Anna.

"Everything is going to be alright now."

oOo

 **I think I'm having a bit too much fun playing cat-and-mouse with Dean…**

 **Please review!**


	23. Fall Apart

**I'm so sorry for the late update – life has been hectic! Have a long chapter as compensation :)**

 **Enjoy!**

oOo

" _You've taken away everything_

 _And I can't deal with that."_

 _\- It's Not Over, Daughtry_

oOo

 **US-50E, Toledo, Kansas**

They were so close. The Impala was filled with a heavy, determined silence; it gave power to Dean's right foot as he pushed the car hard, forcing it to devour the road. The anticipation – to see Sam, to wrap his hands around Thomas' throat – was overwhelming. He _needed_ to see Sam, to know that his baby brother was alive, even if he wasn't alright.

Dean was in no doubt that Sam was broken. He hadn't been whole when he'd been taken; they'd made small bits of progress when they'd got through the detox, stayed at Jody's and gone on that damned case, but it wasn't going to take much to push him back the other way. Hell, Sam had been physically and psychologically tortured for four months, had suffered through his grief for that whole time, had faced off against Lucifer – again – been force-fed demon blood, detoxed, got abducted and now he'd spent weeks living in a hell that Dean didn't even know about. Could he have dealt with all that? A large part of the older Winchester's mind knew that he couldn't and he had never seen himself as strong as his brother. Sam was tough but he wasn't that tough; not when he'd had no chance to recover.

 _Stone Number One._

That had been enough to help them build the blocks for Sam's recovery last time, but Dean wasn't sure it was going to be this time. They'd dealt with the trauma created by monsters and the supernatural, but this was all manmade. It was different. They were meant to be invincible; how was he ever going to be able to convince Sam that he was safe when Dean didn't believe it himself? The English had taken everything they'd had faith in and ripped it away.

Dean had no idea what he was going to do.

The helplessness, even though he knew he was flying to his brother's rescue, hung heavy on his shoulders and threatened to undermine his courage. He needed everything to be alright, but the pit in his stomach told him that the fight was only just beginning.

He needed to quieten the doubt and the despair that was consuming his resolve: getting Sam out of Thomas' clutches was the most important thing right now.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Cameron, US-36E, Kansas**

Every clink of the chain in the backseat sent a spike of irritation through Anna's nerves. She sat and seethed, staring straight out of the windshield. As with all things that cause annoyance, she was hyperaware of the miscreant behind her. Every hitched breath, every small knock of his feet against the door behind her was like a pounding in her ears. Of course he was too tall for the backseat. If she'd had her way, he'd be in the trunk, tied tightly wrist to ankle so that he didn't make any noise. But no: Thomas wanted to be _nice._ He wanted to be gentle.

Oh, if she'd had her way…

She glanced at Thomas; he was quiet as he drove, staring ahead with a serene expression. Getting away from Ketch had begun to sooth his anxieties and his blind faith that Samuel was supposedly obedient blinkered him. She would not make that mistake.

Her gaze slid to the corner of her eyeline where it landed on the little wretch. He was led with his head on the pillow, torso covered by the blanket Thomas had draped over him. The black cloth covered his eyes but his mouth was open and his chest rose and fell evenly. At least Thomas had had the forethought to sedate him; the motion of the car coupled with the drugs had lulled him to sleep. She honestly didn't know what she would have done if Samuel had been fully awake. It was going to be a problem later – that she knew. For now, she tried her best to ignore him, instead mentally considering which spell would be most appropriate for what she wanted.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

"There it is," Ketch pointed, his hand sneaking up between Dean and Jody, gesturing to their left. A pale farmhouse squatted in the distance at the end of a driveway that was lost amidst widespread fields of green. They all set their eyes on it except for Dean who pressed down harder on the accelerator until he felt Jody's hand on his shoulder.

"Dean, wait."

"What?" he barked, still not easing his foot off.

"We need to stop, get a lay of the land and see what we're up against. We can't just go barrelling in. Go past and see if you can find somewhere to pull in up ahead," Ketch instructed, cutting in. Dean pursed his lips and clenched his teeth so hard it hurt but he lifted his foot a fraction and pushed the Impala on, past the entrance to the farm. He drove for another half a mile before swinging the car into a layby on the right. Dust rose up as the tyres crunched across the loose gravel. Silence engulfed them as Baby's comforting rumble cut out. Dean opened his door, the creak comforting as he slammed it shut and walked around to the trunk while the others climbed out. Opening the wide lid, he lifted the false bottom and propped it up, revealing the array of weapons that lived in the car. Ketch quirked an eyebrow at the sight but said nothing.

"What's the plan?" Jody asked as Dean strapped a machete to his thigh and riffled through the numerous guns he had stashed in the back. He handed her one, knowing she couldn't use her own service weapon.

"We needed to work out where the storm cellar is and where they all are," Dean remarked, glancing up at the farmhouse in the distance as he shoved one gun in the back of his jeans under his jacket. "A house like that? I reckon the cellar's at the front. That's got to be where they're keepin' Sam. It's probably, what, ten feet square? No way they'll all be down there. The bitch'll be in the house; Thomas might be in either."

"What's the play?" Ketch asked, shaking his head when Dean offered him a firearm. He opened his own briefcase, revealing an impressive selection of weapons.

"You and Jody are gonna take the house. Make it stealthy – no chargin' in. We don't know what we're up against. They don't know we're comin' but I don't want you gettin' your heads blown off. Me and Cas'll take the cellar – Sam's my priority. You find the woman and do whatever the hell you want to her – I dunno if you want to take her back to England or not; I don't care. If Thomas is there, you leave him alive – he's mine," Dean growled, his frown tight and directed straight at the farmhouse. He slammed the trunk shut with a bang, a second gun in his hand. "We all good?"

They nodded their replies and followed at a jog towards the fields opposite, leaving the Impala behind them. Dean led the way, Castiel keeping pace alongside him; Jody and Ketch fanning out behind them. They climbed over the wooden fence that imprisoned the field and continued forwards, slowing slightly as the ground became more uneven. The hunter would have preferred to have taken a more concealed route but there didn't appear to be one nor did they have the time to look for one – not when Sam was so close. So they ran in the open and prayed that they weren't going to be noticed.

The farmhouse loomed up, its greying walls flaking and dismal, battered by the elements for too long. Some panels were a dark brown – replacements for the sections swept away in recent tornadoes. The sight made Dean's stomach drop; the tornado that had attacked him and Jody would've hit here. It had lasted all night and the two captors would have had to move into the cellar.

With Sam.

The thought sickened him and pushed his feet onwards; he couldn't begin to fathom what they might have done to him in that time. He couldn't think about it now – not when he was so close. A stone chimney reared up at the centre of the house between the staggered roofs. A makeshift fence made from bent tree boughs snared its way around the property, broken in two places, the beams lying on the ground – further evidence that the tornado had struck.

 _I'm comin' Sammy._

As they came up on the property, they slowed, drawing weapons and spreading out. Dean signalled with one hand for Jody and Ketch to veer off towards the house as he headed for the garden with Castiel. Everything was quiet and he couldn't see a car; the dirt driveway wound up the centre of the front lawn but it was empty. The car being missing wasn't a problem; it just meant one of the abductors was gone. They wouldn't risk moving Sam for no reason. Sam would fight them every step of the way – Dean knew he would.

He glanced at Jody and Ketch, watching them crouch lower and edge along the fence, heading for the shadow cast by the house. A small whitewashed shed was stood in front of him; he hopped the fence with ease and went around the back of the shed, pausing there with Cas by his side.

"There," he mouthed, pointing to a raised mound on the edge of the lawn, cowering in the corner by the opposite fence. Cas nodded. Dean peered around the side of the shed and saw nothing. He sprinted across the driveway, feet kicking up dust as he slid to a stop in front of an angled entrance set into the raised mound: the steel door glinting dully in the sunlight. The opening was around the size of a normal doorframe; it was shut but not locked – the bolt wasn't across and there was no padlock to be seen. Dean's hand clenched around his gun, a grim smile baring his teeth. One of them was down there with his brother.

His trigger finger twitched.

His heart thrummed as anticipation flooded through him. It was only the door that now stood between him and his brother. His revenge.

Signalling to Cas, he waited while the angel reached down and grasped the handle. Cas counted down from three with his fingers; Dean stood tensed, gun raised, eyes trained on the door. The angel yanked the door open; Dean ran down into the darkness, gun up, finger ready, head bent, eyes looking, searching for Sam's face as he descended down.

"Sammy!" he shouted, his voice echoing around the room. His feet thudded against the concrete as he reached the bottom, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, Cas coming right up behind him.

And stopped.

Dean stared, eyes wide, horrified, his gun wavering in his hands.

"No…" he choked as he stared at the empty room in front of him.

oOo

Jody followed alongside Ketch, her gun drawn and pointed down, her arms straight but ready to snap up at a moment's notice. She'd taken the lead on raids in the past, but Ketch oozed dominance and, besides, he knew the people they were up against. She didn't. The sheriff had expected him to aim for the back door but he'd set their course for the front instead. With a large farmhouse, the front door would most likely give them the clearest view and the straightest path to multiple areas of the house whereas the backdoor would most likely lead them into the kitchen, narrowing their field of view.

The wood of the porch creaked beneath their boots as they crept across, keeping out of the view of the windows. The storm door opened soundlessly but the front door didn't budge when Ketch tried the handle. Jody watched him reach into his pocket, extracting a long thin brown box. She frowned when he pulled an ornate gold key from it. He slid it into the lock and waited a few seconds, an odd sound of scraping metal ringing up quietly from the lock. Ketch turned the key, unlocking the door with ease, Jody's eyebrows rising. The British Men of Letters did seem to be full of surprises. They entered the house, Ketch taking the lead.

Inside it was silent, except for the ticking of an ornate grandfather clock that was stood in the hall in front of them. Ketch held up a hand, motioning for her to go right – towards the dining room – while he went left. The sheriff slipped off, keeping her gun raised and her ears straining, listening for the tiniest sound.

oOo

"GOD DAMMIT!" Dean roared, his fist flying and connecting with the nearest concrete wall. He felt something crack inside his knuckles, the bone splintering under the impact but he didn't care. It hurt less than the ache burning through him.

They were too late.

Again.

"Maybe he's in the house," Cas suggested, gently grabbing Dean's hand, holding it firmly when the hunter tried to pull away. His palms glowed with a soft gold light, sending warmth through Dean's hand, fixing the break instantly.

"He won't be there," Dean snarled, glaring around the room. He ran his hands back through his hair, holding the sides of his head. "Fuck! Why the fuck have they gone?! It doesn't make any sense!"

Cas just shook his head; he didn't have an answer and, as much as Dean needed one, the angel wasn't going to give him a falsehood. A deadweight had fallen heavily inside his stomach; it was an uncomfortable sensation and not one that he was overly familiar with. Was this what it felt like to constantly keep losing hope? They had all faced numerous setbacks throughout the years, but they just didn't seem to be able to keep up with Thomas no matter how hard they tried. The angel gazed around the room, disheartened, as Dean moved further inside.

The cellar was bordering on claustrophobic at roughly twelve feet by eight. The walls were unpainted, the dull grey of the concrete creating a heavy dimness to the interior. It was mostly bare; a wooden shelf hung on one side opposite a single metal cot sat against the opposite wall. A table and two wooden chairs were placed inside, one near the bed, one against a wall.

It looked like a prison cell.

Sam had been there; Dean knew it. He could smell his brother. It was faint – much weaker than if he walked into Sam's room back in the bunker but it was there. And it made Dean's heart ache. It was the familiar scent of safety, family: home. He hadn't realised how much he had missed the simple comfort it gave him. Tears prickled in his eyes and he blinked hard, turning away from Castiel, his throat working as he fought to keep his composure. Because, underneath that comforting scent was one that was just as familiar but less than welcome: fear.

His baby brother had been trapped in this hole, alone, afraid, and he hadn't been there.

Dean swallowed. Moving to the bed, he bent down, scooping up a long chain attached to a metal cuff. Lifting it, he watched it go taut as he pulled it up and away from the wall it was fastened to.

"Jesus," he whispered, flinging the chain away from him and back onto the bed.

"Dean."

"What?" He turned when Castiel spoke softly and pointed to a small black box situated high up on the wall opposite them, its glass lens catching the light. "You've got to be fuckin' kiddin' me." He looked from the camera to the bed, bile climbing him throat. "They were _watching_ him?! He's not an animal!" He swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down.

Looking around, avoiding the bed, the older Winchester prowled over to the wooden shelf, his gaze falling on a few discarded pieces of rope and chains. A bottle at the back caught his attention and the hunter frowned. Reaching up, he grabbed it and held it in his open palm. Cas looked down at it.

"Is that cologne?" he asked quizzically, frowning.

"It's mine," Dean murmured, turning the cool bottle over in his hand, knowing that it wasn't just the same one that he had – it was his bottle. "But why…" He couldn't finish. His stomach roiled. He didn't want to think about the reasons why that deranged sociopath would have taken his cologne. Mentally, he shored up the wall, pushing back the avalanche that was threatening to wipe him out.

 _Not now. Not yet._

With trembling fingers, he put the cologne back up on the shelf, fighting the temptation to fling it against the wall. If he did that, he'd let go and he couldn't. Sucking in a heavy breath through flared nostrils, the hunter regained control and moved on. The metal cabinet that was opposite the bed was empty; Dean didn't even know what he was looking for. Something to confirm that was Sam alive, that he was okay. Of course, he didn't find anything.

Castiel stayed silent behind him as he moved about, stilling when his gaze landed on something poking out near the head of the bed. Bending down, Dean picked up the screwed up bundle. Its texture was soft and worn like it had seen too many washes but was still as good as new. The softness was familiar, the memory etched into his fingers; how many hours had he sat with Sam scrubbing blood from shirts just like this one? The red chequered pattern was dirty from the floor, but it wasn't…right. Dean opened out the scrunched up shirt, eyes widening, heart stopping and stomach dropping as he stared at the tattered remains of his brother's shirt. It had been cut – shredded – into pieces, left in ruins.

Removed by force.

Blood screamed in his ears and suddenly the room was too much, too small. The ruined shirt fell to the floor as Dean ran up the stairs, barely making it out before collapsing on the lawn, doubled over, bringing up the little food he'd consumed.

 _Sam._

oOo

 **Rail Splitter Rest Stop: Northbound, Sherman, Illinois**

"Are you sure you don't want anything specific?" Thomas asked quietly, keeping his voice low. Anna gave a small shake of her head, giving him a tight, but polite smile.

"No – anything that you think we can eat on the move is fine. Just don't be long," she replied. He gave her a warm smile, patting her hand as he climbed out of the car.

 _Be just long enough._

Her gaze tracked Thomas as he walked quickly across the parking lot towards the two squat buildings that were huddled underneath a broad blackjack oak tree. They had parked in the furthest space they could without appearing suspicious, leaving eight spaces between them and a 2016 Chevrolet Sonic. Anna turned and looked down fully at their captive. Samuel was breathing evenly, but no longer deeply; he was awake. The Englishwoman was mildly surprised – she had expected him to have started kicking up a fuss of his own by now. Maybe Thomas was right: maybe he was learning.

That wasn't enough to appease her though.

"Would you like a drink, Samuel?" she asked, satisfied when she saw his tongue snake out and run over his lips, giving away his answer before he could voice it.

"Yeah, please," he answered, his voice crackling and dry.

"Alright, hold on." Unbuckling her seatbelt, Anna slid out of the large vehicle, landing lightly on the tarmac before rushing around to the trunk. The wind slid over her, making the royal blue scarf around her neck flutter. The lid popped up and she grabbed the spell book she'd been perusing the night before. Selecting one of the pages she'd bookmarked, her finger traced over the incantation. Picking up a vial of powdered nightshade from her bag, she emptied a small amount into her palm.

" _Timeo parvus tractus,_ " she intoned, fascinated when the nightshade flared black and seeped into her skin, disappearing completely. She smiled, grabbing a water bottle and shut the trunk. As always, she would get her way. Heading around to the driver's side, Anna checked around her: no one was nearby and Thomas was nowhere to be seen. A quick peek in the tinted window showed no sign of movement from the delinquent. The door popped open quietly and Anna stared down at him, her lips twisted in a disgusted sneer. She uncapped the water and leaned over him, tilting his head to the side with one hand so that he was facing upwards blindly. An odd pulsing sensation rippled beneath her skin before she took her hand away.

"Open your mouth, Samuel," she instructed, her tone calm but firm. He complied without fuss – disappointingly – and she tipped the bottle so that the sports cap was between his teeth. His lips closed around it and he sucked huge mouthfuls of water. Honestly, it was like he hadn't had a drink in days; the boy was far too dramatic. Anna rolled her eyes as she reached out a hand and cupped the side of his face in her palm. He froze momentarily, flinching in surprise at the contact. Her thumb stroked his cheek below the blindfold, her fingers brushing the coarse stubble that was growing near his jawline. That would need to change.

The tingling in her hand flared again, this time a soft black glow emanating from between her fingers and seeping into his skin. Samuel didn't react; perhaps he couldn't feel it. While Anna would have enjoyed seeing him recoil in pain, it wasn't exactly appropriate in the middle of a rest stop.

"That's enough for now, Samuel," she murmured, taking the water from him when the glowing stopped. She heard him murmur a soft 'thank you' as she shut the door and walked back around to her side of the car, wondering vaguely how long it would take for the spell to kick in. Climbing back into the vehicle she waited for Thomas to reappear.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Castiel watched Dean as he walked off towards the road, going on the pretence of collecting the Impala. They knew Thomas had gone; there was no point in hiding the car out on the road anymore and they were going to be at the farm for a while. But, more than that, the angel knew the hunter needed the time to collect himself. He'd pinned everything on finding this place, thinking that once they found it, they would find Sam. None of them had doubted that. Why would Thomas have moved? It wasn't like he knew they were coming. And, as much as Castiel wanted to believe that they'd come back, all the signs had pointed to the cellar being abandoned. You didn't move a hostile captive unless you had no other choice; they all knew that.

Dean's shoulders were hunched over, his head bowed as he walked away. Cas had offered to go down with him, but Dean had simple clapped his hand on the angel's shoulder as he moved past him.

Now the angel was stuck; he didn't know how to help his friend. Unless Ketch had a bright idea, they were all the way back to square one. Again.

Turning away from Dean, Castiel made his way up to the farmhouse, hoping that Jody and Ketch had managed to find something useful. The house was squat and tired, but something made Cas' skin crawl the closer he got. It was the same tingling sensation he got whenever he was near something that was warded. Peering curiously at the walls, he studied them, concentrating as he walked. Swiping a hand in front of him, a host of red glowing symbols revealed themselves across the whole of the house. It _was_ warded – heavily so, yet he didn't recognise the marks. Who were they warding the house against? They weren't for angels – they would have glowed a bluish-white.

Stepping up onto the porch, the angel stopped just in front of the door, a high-pitching keening sound screeching. It got louder and higher, the wood beneath his feet suddenly emanating with a bright white glow, an intricate design that had been concealed now flashing bright. His eyes widened as understanding dawned.

"Oh cra–"

The light flashed and he was gone, the sigil on the floor fading, leaving a scorch mark in its place.

oOo

 **Rail Splitter Rest Stop: Northbound, Sherman, Illinois**

Thomas strolled back across the parking lot, bag in hand. His stomach rumbled but that was his only discomfort. A sense of peace had settled over him; every mile the BMW consumed, the further they got from danger. From Ketch. Finding evidence of that psychopath in the bunker had unnerved Thomas – he would freely admit it – as only a fool _wouldn't_ fear Ketch. He was one of the British Men of Letters' most terrifying assets; a ruthless killer, interrogator, weapons master and tracker. Every task was carried out with clear, calm precision whether he was leading a raid on vampires or interrogating his own flesh and blood. Thomas hadn't seen James, but he knew exactly what kind of techniques Ketch would have used; they'd all heard the stories even if they hadn't witnessed the acts. Ketch had a reputation and it was well-maintained. If he was willing to interrogate his own son, Thomas knew that he had no qualms dealing with what Markham had apparently deemed a 'rogue' member. Thomas bristled at the thought; he wasn't rogue – he was getting out, making his own mark. Fine, revenge was in the mix too but his grievance wasn't with his own chapter. The British Men of Letters had no loyalty to the Winchester legacies – why they couldn't leave well enough alone, he didn't know. It wasn't like he was trying to make a deal with Lucifer. Perhaps, when his dealings with Dean were done, he should send a message to Markham, reassure him that Thomas wasn't a threat. He just wanted to live in peace with his family.

He'd taken the necessary precautions though before they'd left the farmhouse. If Ketch had managed to locate it (Dean would never have managed alone), the traps he'd set would be enough to keep them at bay long enough to allow him to get Sam moved and the next phase of his rehabilitation done. The angel would find himself far, far away if he tried to enter the house.

Thomas smiled at the thought.

His stomach growling broke him from his reverie; they were all hungry but, for obvious reasons, they would have to wait to find somewhere more secluded to satiate their hunger. He smiled politely at a couple walking past him, his eyes returning to the BMW as soon as they'd gone past. He could see Anna through the windshield, her head bowed slightly; she was reading. If she was calm, that meant Sam was. Thomas had been delighted by the journey so far; it had been wholly uneventful. Sam had slept for most of it – the poor lad was exhausted after all – and even when Thomas knew he was awake, he'd remained lucid and amiable. All were excellent signs indeed. It meant that Sam was nearly ready to hear Thomas' truth. While it was going to be difficult for Sam to hear, once he was truly ready, it wouldn't take long for him to succumb to it.

They would finally be into the final stages of the plan – on the home stretch with the finish line within touching distance. Anticipation filled Thomas, tingling through him with delicious chills as he reached the car and opened the door.

Sam heard the pop of the car door near his head as it opened, a cool rush of air blowing in gently. The car rocked as Thomas climbed in, a distinct rustle of plastic accompanying him.

"I've picked up a few different things; we'll find somewhere to stop in a little while," he heard Thomas say, his voice spreading a warm comfort through Sam that died quickly.

"Good idea. I was looking at the map earlier; there appears to be a suitable area about ten miles from here – there is somewhere a tad closer, but around here is too built up." As Sam listened to Anna, he became aware of the weight of the blanket pressing down on him. Its warmth became too much as if someone had flipped the temperature switch in his body, jacking it up. Twisting on the seat, he grabbed a handful of the material with his hand and pulled as much as he could, tugging the whole thing off.

"Are you alright, Sam?" Thomas asked. Sam's head turned towards his voice.

"Yeah, I'm just hot," he replied quietly. The car engine started and he felt the air conditioning blast through, raising the hairs on his forearms. It was a welcome sensation. The car rumbled backwards, Thomas and Anna's conversation low in the front.

Sam twisted again, the chain around his waist and wrists feeling like they were tightening. He tugged, assuming that the one around his waist had caught on something. It didn't loosen, in fact, it began to dig into his stomach. Hooking a thumb under it, he tried to pry it away, surprised that he could even get his thumb under it. Blood began to drum in his ears. The darkness behind his eyelids seemed to get blacker – if that was even possible. His chest rose and fell, each breath heavy, laboured, as though someone was sitting on his torso.

Anna glanced out of the corner of her eye, spying movement in the backseat. It would seem that her spell was beginning to work, although she was disappointed; she had expected it to have had more of an impact. Huffing, she turned her attention back to her book.

Sam inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to quell the rapid beating of his heart. It wasn't working. Every breath felt like he was sucking in warm, oppressive air, like that of a sauna, despite the air conditioning that he could hear blowing. His t-shirt itched and rubbed against his skin, crackling fire with every movement. He tried lying still. That didn't work either; he could _feel_ the car closing in around him.

There wasn't enough room.

He needed to get out.

He couldn't; he knew it but didn't care. Reason fled from Sam's mind, flattened by the claustrophobic darkness that was squeezing him. Panic rose, flooding his body with adrenaline.

"Stop the car!" Sam's bellow made both Brits jump. Thomas' gaze flew up to the rear-view mirror, his eyes wide and alarmed. Sam was bucking and shouting, his whole body contorting.

"Sam! Calm down!" Thomas barked, his peace from earlier dissipating in an instant. _Not now._ They were too close to civilians; the whole area was teeming with cars.

"I need to get out! Let me out!" Sam roared, slamming his booted feet against the car door with a dull thud, tearing Thomas' eyes back to the mirror again and away from the road ahead. "Open the door!"

"Sam! Stop! What is wrong with you?!" Thomas snapped, his knuckles whitening as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Sam didn't listen, his howls getting louder as he thrashed harder.

"Thomas, we need to pull over!" Anna shouted, her voice nearly drowned out by Sam's.

"We can't just pull over here!" Thomas growled, his panic rising. His eyes narrowed at the road before him. He swore, grinding his teeth when the cars ahead began to brake, a red traffic light visible above them. Instantly, his foot eased off the accelerator.

"Thomas let me out!"

"Dammit, Anna, find something to shut him up with – if we hit that queue, someone is going to hear him!" Thomas thundered, his heart racing. He saw Anna wrench the delicate blue scarf from around her neck. The car alarm added to the cacophony as she unbuckled her seatbelt, twisting between the two front seats.

Sam smelled it before he felt a silken piece of material crammed into his mouth, cutting off his cries. He wrenched his head to the side, trying to dislodge the insistent hand that was pushing the material further into his mouth, moaning softly as the overpowering stench of Anna's sickening perfume filled his nose, adding to the oppressive waves that were washing over him.

Thomas eased off the accelerator completely, letting the car just roll, cars passing him in the left-hand lane as Anna buckled her seatbelt back on. The traffic queue loomed closer. He held his breath, heart racing. It came out in a rush when he jerked, surprised by the sudden bang from behind him. Sam was kicking out, hitting the door behind Anna repeatedly.

"Sam, pack it in! You are not getting out of this car!" Thomas barked, his tone patronising, livid. He heard Sam groan behind him but he didn't stop kicking. They couldn't stop him – not in the middle of traffic. The light ahead turned green, just as they came up behind the queue of traffic. The Englishman shot a worried look over to the left, noting the strange look from the driver at the banging sound. Thomas had never been more thankful for choosing a car with tinted windows; they might hear the banging but they certainly couldn't see his precious cargo.

"Thomas, put your foot down!" Anna snapped, gesturing at the opening in the queue as the other cars accelerated. He slammed his foot down, the BMW lurching forward, roaring past the other vehicles as he swerved into a gap in the fast lane and pushed forwards.

"Find me somewhere we can get off!" he ordered, ripping the map out of the glove compartment. Anna's jaw clenched as the banging continued, the sound of splitting plastic ringing through the car. She glanced over her shoulder, saw a huge crack in the handle, the whole thing pushed in, broken by Sam's foot. She turned her attention back to the map, using her finger to find their location.

"Turn off in another couple of miles," she instructed hurriedly, "it leads to a housing estate, but there looks like there's an entrance to a creek – we'll be concealed there."

Thomas nodded but said nothing, his jaw visibly working, teeth grinding with each pound from Sam's kicking legs. It seemed that her spell may have worked a little bit _too_ well, but then, it needed to. She had a point to prove and Samuel was proving it very, very well. Even Thomas needed to learn lessons the hard way sometimes.

The next thud was less hollow; she twisted again and saw his foot connect with the window as Thomas swerved off at the approaching junction to the blaring of another car's horn. His foot connected again and again and again. The glass cracked.

"Thomas, hurry up!" she shrieked. The last thing they needed was a fully broken window and nowhere to hold the little nuisance. "There!" She pointed to a dirt track, the entrance almost invisible amongst a spread of trees. Thomas wrenched the steering wheel, the tyres screeching as he turned down the lane. They bumped and jolted down the track, racing into the trees. Anna held onto the door, her whole body tensed as they shot along. Even Sam had stopped kicking as the car bounced and rocked.

They slid to a stop in a small round clearing, tyre tracks visible and one other car parked to the left. Dust was still rising from beneath the tyres as Thomas leapt out, slamming the door behind him. He ran over to the other car, peering into the window. It was empty. Looking around, he strained his ears but heard nothing except for the thumping from his own car.

Scowling deeply, he stalked back over as Anna climbed out too. He went straight to the trunk, lifting the tailgate and reaching into the duffle bag he'd put at the front. Ripping it open, he pulled out several items and prowled around to Anna's side of the car, his frown deepening when he saw the crack in the glass.

"Thomas let me out! Please! I can't breathe!" Sam hollered as he opened the door. He'd managed to spit out Anna's scarf, the material now lying in the foot well.

"Anna! Use this and quickly," Thomas snapped, holding out a roll of silver duct tape as he put everything else down on the seat.

"Wouldn't you rather I use the other one?" she asked. He shot her a glare.

"I would have said if I did! Use the tape!" he snarled, ignoring the frosty look she gave him as she took the roll. She disappeared around the other side as he turned his attention back to Sam.

"Thomas, I can't – please, it's too much, I need to –"

"You _need_ to do as you're damned-well told!" Thomas growled, grabbing both of his ankles and holding them together, looping a belt around them. He cinched it tight, ignoring Sam's protests and pleading. He didn't know what had happened and didn't care. Sam had put them in danger in a moving vehicle, in a crowded place and that was unacceptable. He'd been too trusting too quickly. Grabbing another strap, he wrapped it around Sam's thighs, just above his knees as Anna opened the door on the other side. Thomas saw him look up blindly, unable to stop Anna as she pressed a long strip of tape over his mouth, finally silencing him properly. Thomas grabbed his legs and roughly rolled him onto his side. Forcing his ward to bend his legs, the older man looped a short tether through the strap at his ankles and through the back of the chain around his waist. He pulled it tight and yanked Sam onto his back again, eliciting a soft moan from him.

"There, that should keep you," Thomas grumbled, loosening the strap around Sam's thighs by a notch. He lay with his feet planted horizontally on the seat, his legs bent double and unable to kick anymore thanks to the tether. His hands remained manacled to his waist but he was unable to reach any of the restraints. Finally, Thomas attached a cargo strap – one with a carabiner attached on either end – to the strap around Sam's thighs and hooked the other end to the pole of one of the backseat's headrests, shortening it, loosely anchoring him in place. It wasn't perfect but it would do given the circumstances.

He slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, exhaling slowly and closing his eyes. That had been too close for comfort. The door on the other side thumped softly as Anna closed it.

"Are you alright?" he heard her ask, her hand rubbing his arm gently. He opened his eyes and looked down at her, nodding.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," he said softly. She gave him a small, tight smile.

"It's alright, Thomas. I hate to say 'I told you so' but…"

"I'd deserve it," Thomas finished for her, running a hand back through his hair. "You were right; I should've pre-empted the dangers. I wanted to trust him, perhaps a bit too much."

"You'd made such good progress; it's only natural that you'd want to. But Samuel is still unpredictable, despite our best efforts."

"I just don't know what has got into him. What happened while I was in the rest stop?"

"Nothing," Anna lied smoothly, shrugging, "I gave him a drink and that was it. He didn't say – or do – anything. It's very bizarre."

Thomas pushed off from the side of the car, turning and running his fingers across the crack in the glass. It was still smooth on the outside; they were lucky it wasn't worse. It was such a strange turn of events. Perhaps something in his system had caused the reaction; they'd used a lot of different concoctions on him recently, both magical and chemical based, so perhaps they were the cause. The Englishman felt a pang of regret at his anger, but he couldn't take that back now. He would apologise later.

When they were safe.

"Would you please sit with him in the back? It might help calm him down," Thomas asked. Annoyance sparked through Anna; the last thing she wanted was to spend the rest of her journey in close proximity with the wretch. Honestly, for all the bad luck she appeared to be having, anyone would think she had performed some great sin.

"Of course I will," she patted his arm, her smile dropping as she turned away and walked back around the car. She paused at the trunk, pulling out her carryall. Grabbing her perfume, she sprayed it copiously; Samuel hadn't showered in who-knew-how-long and she was not going to spend her time completely repulsed.

Sam fidgeted when he heard one of the front doors open, trying to call out but the sound was just a muffled whimper. The claustrophobic feeling hadn't left him – now it was worse – and he pulled and strained as much as he could, but nothing gave an inch. His breath rattled through his nose, each one short and panicky. He wanted _out_. Needed it. The door by his head opened again.

Anna lifted up his head, pulling the pillow out. She wanted nothing more than to put it down again, over his face this time, and press down. Frustration ebbed within her as she shoved the urge back down, putting the pillow down in the other foot well instead. Sam squirmed as she slid in.

He didn't know what she was doing until he felt her leg underneath his head. The door thumped shut. Her lap was warm beneath him, adding to his anxiety. He didn't want to be near anyone; he wanted to get out. The strong, overpowering scent of her perfume invaded his nose, polluting the very air he was trying to breathe in. Sam lifted his head, trying to wriggle further down the seat to get more space.

"Calm down, Samuel; it's alright," Anna soothed. He shook his head, grunting when he felt her hand press down on his mouth, forcing his head back down on her lap. He moaned and she shushed him, smoothing the tape with her thumbs. His heart thrummed uncomfortably in his chest as the car rumbled back to life and they pulled away. They needed to listen! He needed to make them understand! His words were unintelligible mumbling until Anna's warm palm cupped his taped mouth, further silencing him. When he tried to turn his head, she simply tightened her grip until he stopped.

"Good boy, Samuel, that's better," she crooned, sneering down at him. Uncapping a bottle of water with one hand, she drank deeply, watching the world pass by outside of the window, keeping her hand over his mouth, smiling when she thought about how it would add to the effects of the claustrophobia spell. She could feel the heavy pants from his nose brushing over her hand, informing her that the spell was still in full effect. It had worked much better than she could have expected; she was a more proficient spell caster than she'd given herself credit for.

Now he would suffer in silence, which was just the way she liked it.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Dean stepped into the farmhouse, his gun stuck in the back of his jeans. It wasn't like he was going to need it. He'd taken his time going down the Impala, the walk full of blank staring and a complete lack of thought. He couldn't – he didn't know what to think anymore. All his plans had rested on the fact that _Sam was supposed to be there._ Only once he'd opened the Impala, climbed in and smelled the familiar scent of home, did he let himself go. Alone, away from prying eyes and sympathetic looks, the older Winchester had cried and screamed until he was hoarse, letting his despair consume him entirely.

It had taken him longer than he would have liked to pull himself back together, to repair the mask that he wore so well most of the time. Looking in a mirror that hung on the wall in the entrance hall, he could see the slight reddening of his eyes, but that was all that had slipped past the mask. He blinked, turning away.

"Jody? Cas?" he called, moving through the house. He felt like he was floating, disconnected, as he moved. Jody appeared from the kitchen, her soft eyes sad and knowing. She stepped up to him wordlessly and wrapped her arms around him, smoothing a hand up and down his back. He just stood there, unable to do anything else. If he hugged her back, he'd crack again.

"This is not over," she whispered fiercely, reading him like a book. "We'll use whatever we find here and go from there. There's always a way, honey."

She let him go and he nodded, looking past her vacantly.

"Where're Cas and Ketch?"

"Ketch is upstairs. Cas was out with you," Jody replied, frowning. Dean moved his gaze down to her.

"No, he came up here while I got the car."

"I haven't seen him," Jody repeated. She followed Dean as he turned around. "Maybe he went back to the cellar."

Dean walked back towards the door, looking down at the marks in the porch that he'd missed coming in in a daze.

"Shit," he swore quietly. Walking towards the door, he went to step outside. And stopped. Jody almost bumped into him.

"What? Why did you stop?"

Dean went to walk forwards again. And again, he stopped.

"You've got to be fuckin' kiddin' me," he snarled, turning and stalking through towards the kitchen. Jody watched him go before turning back to the door. She went to lean forwards out of it and…couldn't. Something stopped her. Bewildered, she held out a hand and felt something hard and cold beneath her fingertips but she could see nothing. Dean's boots thumped back through the house. "Back door's the same, so are the windows."

"What the hell is goin' on?" Jody asked, incredulous.

"It would appear the house has been warded," Ketch answered, appearing at the top of the stairs, a frown etched into his forehead.

"God dammit!" Dean spat, running both hands back through his hair.

"What does that mean?" she questioned, looking at both men.

"We're trapped."

oOo

 **Please review!**


	24. The Liar's Truths

**Another long one for you!**

 **Enjoy!**

oOo

 _"Can I feel anymore?_

 _Lie to me: I'm fading"_

 _\- Need, Hana Pestle_

oOo

 **Twelve miles northwest of Inuvik, Northwest Territories, Canada**

The snow deadened all sound across the frozen forest of the north. Below the soft blanket, small rodents scurried back and forth, burrowing through the dense drift to find what little food was available. Above ground, a wolf trotted across the top, her paws leaving huge prints dotting into the snow as she loped along the treeline.

A loud whooshing disturbed the peace, sending the few birds that were up in the treetops flying off in a racket of frantic calls. The wolf stopped in her tracks, nose pointed in the air, ears flattening back as she retreated into the protection of the trees. A ball of light smashed down, ploughing straight into the snow, sending a tidal wave of ice flying up high. Steam rose as heat poured from the mysterious object. Watching, the wolf's ears flickered back and forth, twizzling around constantly as she waited to see what emerged.

Gradually, a strange paw, unlike any she'd seen up close before, appeared at the top of the snow mound. It's long, blunt claws dug into the soft ground and soon a furless head appeared. She tensed, ready to bolt, her nose lifted to the air. It looked like the two-legged creatures that lived beyond her pack's territory but it didn't smell like one. The scent was…comforting. Her hackles dropped and she edged out of the treeline, stepping out cautiously as the creature reared up to its full height and looked around.

"Crap," Castiel grumbled, dusting the snow from his trench coat. All he could see for miles was snow. Pure, white, blinding snow and mountains surrounding him. Inwardly he kicked himself; he should've guessed that there would be some sort of trap. Yet again they'd underestimated Thomas' determination. Huffing, the angel pulled out his phone, annoyed to see that he had no signal at all. It was hardly surprising given his apparent location. Slipping the device back in his pocket, he saw a wolf stood watching him from a few yards away. Her thick coat was dusted with snow, the mottled grey fur along her back concealed beneath it. She eyed him curiously, her head cocked to one side slightly, waiting for him to do something.

"Where is the nearest human settlement?" Cas asked, fixing the animal with a look. The wolf simply stared back. Of course she wasn't going to understand English. Rolling his eyes, he projected an image forwards, into the mind of the canine, of a row of houses and people. He waited. The wolf turned her gaze away, her nose pointed to his left, following the line of trees. Looking back at him once, she turned and trotted off into the trees, leaving the angel in the frozen clearing.

"South it is then," Cas grumbled, trudging across the snow, his feet digging in deep into the thick snow.

It was going to be a long walk.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

"How the hell are we trapped?" Jody asked, her wide eyes jumping from Dean's outraged expression to Ketch's calm façade. The Englishman walked forward and ran his hand over the invisible wall covering the doorway. It shimmered and distorted minutely beneath his fingers.

"I would imagine Thomas has warded the house. Such sigils are invisible to the human eye – excluding spell casters, of course – so we wouldn't have seen them. That," Ketch pointed to the scorched symbol burned into the porch by the front door, "is used to banish an angel."

"I thought you needed blood to do that?" Dean interrupted as he pulled his phone out, glaring at it.

"Most sigils, yes. It would appear that that one was activated by Castiel's presence alone. I shouldn't bother with your phone; you won't get a signal," Ketch explained, his expression remaining level even when Dean's glare hit him full force. "Unfortunately, we're just going to have to wait for the cavalry and hope that he hasn't been sent somewhere halfway across the globe."

"We can't just sit around and wait for Cas to get back!" Dean growled, his fists clenching.

"What else do you propose we do? We can look around the house, but I can guarantee that, if Thomas has warded this place, he certainly hasn't left us the ingredients or spell book to remove it. Waiting for assistance is the only play we have," Ketch replied, his tone almost exasperated.

"That's it? That's your answer?! Why aren't you pissed!" Dean barked. Ketch, unfazed by his ferocity, simply turned his own icy expression on the hunter.

"What would that achieve, Dean? Logically, we must wait and no amount of 'getting pissed' is going to change that. When faced with a situation such as this, we must use the time to regroup and plan our next move. While we may not know where Thomas has gone, there will be things here that will aid us in our search," Ketch responded, eyeing the room with calculated interest. Dean's fist clenched and, before he did something he knew he'd (probably) regret later, he stalked off.

It was going to be a long few hours stuck in the house with Ketch's smarmy attitude.

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

A warm yellow glow bathed the room softly, taking the edge from the darkness and casting a blanket of calm throughout. It was sparsely furnished with just the essentials: a wardrobe, chest of drawers and a cast iron bed painted white. Heavy navy curtains blocked out the world, letting Sam pretend that he could hide, even if it was just for a little while. He was exhausted: perhaps more so than he could remember feeling in a long time. Even when Toni had deprived him of sleep for days, he wasn't sure he'd been as tired as he was now. Mentally he was drained beyond belief. The rest of the journey had been a waking nightmare. Now, he simply ached. Ached for his past, for a simpler existence and for Dean.

Sam's heart squeezed painfully, reminding him again that he would never get his real brother back. He only had the imitation that Lucifer had concocted to keep him compliant. The thought was sickening; he didn't know what he'd do if he met that… _version_ again now. It would just drive that spear of grief in deeper, keeping the wound open and bleeding.

Yet, ultimately, he wanted Thomas there. He wanted the Englishman's comforting presence and the reassurance that he wasn't angry anymore. Sam knew that it was a bizarrely childish feeling to have, but he no longer cared. Thomas was the one who was helping him and, if he'd pushed the older man away, he might abandon Sam altogether and then that would leave him with nothing.

The thought was unbearable.

Thomas had brought him in to the new house, released his restraints except for a single chain attached to a cuff on his left ankle which threaded under the bed. He'd left Sam alone, walking out with a faint click of the lock. Sam had curled up on top of the crisp white duvet, one arm snaking up under the pillow, and just lay there in the soft yellow light.

Eventually, he must have dozed off; a warm hand shook his shoulder gently, rousing him. Blinking owlishly, he looked up to see Thomas standing over him, a bottle of water in one hand.

"How are you feeling?" Thomas asked, his tone soft, comforting. Running a hand over his face and through his hair, Sam cleared his throat and sat up, propping himself against the headboard.

"Pretty crap," he admitted, taking the bottle that was offered. His mouth felt woolly and dry, his tongue feeling like it was too big.

"You must be exhausted," Thomas commented as he watched Sam take huge gulps of water. He didn't like the unhealthy pallor of Sam's skin; he was much too pale, his hair limb and dull. The dark stubble that lined his jaw further accentuated it. There were dark circles etched beneath his eyes, darker than they'd been before if that was possible. The spark in his eyes was gone, flattened and drained.

"I'm sorry," Sam murmured, raising his eyes to meet Thomas'. "I know you couldn't pull over and I know I put us all in danger, but I couldn't stop." Satisfaction whispered through the Englishman; it was the first time he'd got an unprompted apology. Perhaps Sam hadn't slipped back as much as he'd feared.

"What happened?" Thomas pressed, withholding his forgiveness temporarily. He saw doubt, and what appeared to be fear, flicker across Sam's face when he didn't acknowledge the apology.

"Honestly? I don't know." Long fingers played with the label on the bottle, his eyes downcast. "I was fine and then everything just got…too much. I felt like I was being suffocated, like the car wasn't big enough. I couldn't calm down; I didn't have the control." He was silent for a moment, his teeth worrying his bottom lip before he dragged his gaze up to Thomas. "Do you think it had something to do with Lucifer?"

It was as good a reason as any; Thomas couldn't exactly tell him that it may have been caused by the numerous spells he'd cast on his unsuspecting ward. Gravely, he nodded.

"It's very possible. We knew there were risks moving you, but we had to take them. If anything like it happens again you must tell me immediately. I'm sorry I had to be so severe with you," he apologised, giving Sam a small smile. The corner of Sam's mouth lifted minutely, dropping again almost instantly.

"I don't blame you: you needed to be. I was putting us all in danger and you and Anna don't deserve that after everything you've done for me."

Oh this was marvellous! Thomas' heart swelled. Sam was his: completely, unequivocally _his._ There was genuine conviction in Sam's response; of that, Thomas had no doubt whatsoever. There was no rebellion left in him; this was the beginning of their future. He reached out a hand and patted Sam's leg gently.

"Tell you what: why don't I run you a bath? You've got your own bathroom through that door and I'm sure you'll feel a lot better afterwards. Then you can rest and get a bit more energy back. How does that sound?"

Sam gave him a soft smile.

"I'd like that. Thank you."

With a final pat on his leg, Thomas stood up and wandered into the bathroom, a new bounce in his step, his earlier fears disbanded completely.

Sam watched Thomas disappear through the door that was set off to his right, the sound of running water echoing out. He had felt ashamed at his admission of weakness, but Thomas had never judged him; he was one of the few individuals Sam could be open with and not have to worry. Taking another sip of water, he pulled a face at the slight chalky taste to it; his sense of taste was definitely off. Replacing the cap, he put it on the bedside table as Thomas came back out, a set of keys in hand. Wordlessly, he bent down and removed the chain from Sam's ankle, motioning for him to follow. Sam did as he was told, his bare feet padding across the soft carpet.

"Towels and clean clothes are there. You'll find an electric razor in the cupboard and everything else is out for you," Thomas explained, pointing to various points. "Pull off your shirt; I need to check your shoulder before you get in."

Sam complied, pulling his shirt off over his head and throwing it into a corner. Thomas' hands were warm as he peeled off the dressing from his shoulder. Glancing backwards, he watched Thomas inspect the wound. "This is looking a lot better. Try not to get it too wet if you can," Thomas instructed, throwing the bandage in the trash. "I'll leave you to it. If you need me, shout – I'll hear you."

"Thank you," Sam nodded as the Englishman left, closing the door quietly behind him. Sam heaved a sigh, his broad shoulders sagging. It had been a while since he'd been in a real bathroom; the last time had been before his reckless escape attempt. Shame panged again. He'd been a fool. He could see it now.

Reaching down, he turned the taps off. As he straightened up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the cabinet mirror. He looked like shit. Peering at his torso, he was shocked to see just how thin he'd become. _You need to take better care of yourself, Sammy_. Dean's voice rang clear in his mind, sending a needle through his chest, making him tear his gaze away from the mirror. It wasn't like he was starving; he'd just lost definition through weeks of inactivity. It disgusted him; his mind had thought of every minute detail to trick him into thinking it was real. No wonder he hadn't been able to see it for himself.

Stripping off the rest of his clothes, Sam stepped into water, wincing slightly at the heat, but relaxing when his skin absorbed it and adjusted. He slid himself down gently, groaning with relief as the warm water lapped at his worn, aching body. The porcelain surface of the bath was cool against his shoulders and arms as he lay back, closing his eyes, yet again fascinated and dismayed by how easily his mind had replicated the real sensations.

 _"Please" he whimpered, his fight gone. Toni just smiled and put the soaking cloth back over his face, his ears filling with the sound of his own choking._

His eyes snapped open, staring up at the ceiling. He fought to regulate his fear. She wasn't here; she couldn't hurt him anymore. Sam was almost grateful that Lucifer had left her out of his world. He raised himself up a bit, letting his legs straighten a bit more, keeping his head well clear of the water. It was going to take him a while before he'd even be able to contemplate trying to wash his hair or get his face wet.

 _The water pressure in the Letters' shower room is marvellous._

Another pang. Why was something so simple dredging up so much? Sam could remember that day as though he was right there. Seeing Dean practically skip into the war room, dressed in nothing but a robe and slippers, his hair fluffy and a broad grin on his face, had been their first real taste of the bunker as home.

He missed it. All of it.

All the times they had done research, played silly games, argued, laughed, talked, fought…all of it had mattered and he would never get any of it back. The tiles on the ceiling blurred together as warmth spread behind his eyes and tears slipped from their corners.

He could do one last good thing: he could expel Lucifer and make sure that he could never use his vessel again. Then, he would join his family.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

He felt like a ghost, prowling endlessly around the house, unable to leave.

Useless. Incapable.

All the things Dean had taken pride in not being. Now, he was completely defunct. He'd tried everything he could think of to break out. The windows and doors were sealed. Bullets, chairs, tables, obscenities: nothing penetrated the invisible warding holding him hostage. He'd been more than happy to try blowing something up, but, as Jody had pointed out, if he'd have tried – and probably failed in the process – he'd kill them all.

Since then, he'd wandered around, looking at nothing and finding nothing that could help. Jody had gone and taken stock of the kitchen; everything electrical still worked and the water was still on. There was food left as well so, as long as they were careful, they weren't likely to starve. Not that Dean was hungry at all. He'd joined her briefly, ripping the cupboards open looking for anything alcoholic.

The bastards had left none. What kind of psychos didn't keep any booze in the house?

He only had his flask on him and the thought was sickening. He needed a drink – screw that – he needed a _lot_ of drink. It was the only way he'd coped for years – letting the pain out in spurts of violence and alcoholism had pretty much become his motto. Now, the hunter could do neither; he had nothing he could be violent with, at least, not in a way that was going to be able to take the edge off.

It had been six hours and eighteen minutes since they'd got stuck and he'd exhausted his attempts to get them out for the moment. Dean leaned into the wall in the shower, resting his forehead against the gleaming white tiles as the water battered down on his tense back. He'd turned it up high, his skin turning red from the prolonged heat. Watching the water rotate down around the drain, Dean's thoughts locked onto his brother. Had Sam been in here? Had they even let him shower? After seeing that damned cellar, he couldn't imagine they would. They'd torn his clothes from him and kept him chained to a bed like some sort of dog. That didn't exactly scream 'fair treatment' and knowing his brother, Sam would have fought.

Thinking about it, maybe they had tried it; that must have been when Sam escaped. Pride swelled in the older Winchester; his little brother had played them. The thought gave him a fleeting sense of satisfaction that didn't last. Dean didn't want to think about what Thomas would have done to Sam for getting away. And, as much as the hunter knew his brother was a fighter, Sam was not the same kid he'd been even a year ago. Toni had broken him; Thomas was doing it again.

His mind drifted back; an image of his own hands fixing the showers in the bunker coming forwards. Sam had been afraid of the water so he'd changed the showerheads. He didn't like the dark or bright lights; Dean had dimmed everything. He'd slept in the hard chair in Sam's room, wanting to be there when he woke screaming. Everything he could think of to help fix his baby brother had been done and yet it hadn't been enough. How much had Sam needed him in the last month? How many times had Dean failed to be there?

He'd failed again by getting stuck in the house.

Slamming the water off, Dean stepped out of the shower, finding no comfort in the water anymore. He scrubbed roughly at his hair with a towel, hating himself more than he probably ever had before – even more than he had when he was in hell putting souls on the rack for Alastair. He was still causing suffering; by failing to get Sam away from Thomas, he knew he was responsible for everything that happened to his brother.

He didn't know how he was ever going to deal with that.

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

"Is it a good idea to be letting him loose?" Anna asked as she bustled about, hanging Thomas' jackets in his wardrobe. The Englishman sat on the edge of the bed, his computer balanced on his lap.

"Honestly, Anna, you wait until you see him; he was horrified by what had happened in the car. We're not going to have any more problems with him now – I guarantee it. He's exactly how he should be. He'll keep taking the dependency potion for a while but eventually I'll be able to ween him off it," Thomas explained, his eyes trained on his computer screen. Anna clenched her teeth, her lips drawing back in a silent snarl as she arranged his jackets, her back to him.

"What if you're wrong? What if he's playing you?"

"I can tell; Sam has always been an open book for me – something was different tonight. I don't know whether it's the effects of what I've given him or whether what happened in the car really made him stop and think. Either way, he's changed for the better. This is a good thing, Anna – it's exactly what we've been waiting for!" he replied, his voice getting more and more enthusiastic. Anna stilled, her hands wrapped around the shirt she was folding. _What happened in the car_.

 _She_ had done it. If Sam was as compliant as Thomas thought he was, it was all down to her. _She_ had broken him – not Thomas. The thought sent a shiver of delight down her spine. She resumed folding.

"I've got more good news," Thomas insisted, catching her eye.

"Oh?"

"Look." He turned the laptop to face her. Holding the shirt, Anna leant down and peered at the video feedback he was playing.

"Is that…?"

"Dean Winchester in the cellar? Yes." Thomas smiled triumphantly. "We got out just in time – the camera picked this up this afternoon: an hour after we left. If he's in the cellar, they had to have gone to the house as well."

Anna smiled. "So they're stuck."

"Until someone comes and breaks the warding, yes. Hopefully that poxy angel got banished too so that will slow them down further. It gives us plenty of time to get our preparations sorted properly."

"When will you tell Sam?" Anna asked as he turned the laptop back around.

"Soon. I want to give him a bit of time to rest and recover. It's going to come as a shock for him, I know, so I need him to be stable enough to hear it and take it on board."

Anna nodded, putting the last shirt away and closing the wardrobe quietly.

"Soon the Winchester won't be a problem anymore," she commented, her lip curling into a satisfied sneer.

"Absolutely. Then everything will be as it should be."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," Anna replied, still smiling as she left the room.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

The light outside had died, leaving the farmhouse isolated in a sea of darkness. Nothing was visible from the windows; the air was quiet with the sound of insects clicking and chirping reaching in through the open window. A slight breeze drifted in, ruffling the curtain edges, tormenting the occupants further, reminding them that it could get in but they couldn't leave.

Dean sat alone at a dresser in one of the bedrooms – Thomas' he'd guessed – an array of items laid out carefully in front of him. He'd ransacked the bedrooms after his shower, trying to get inside the head of his rivals.

What he'd found…

He couldn't even begin to fathom the depravity of it. Ketch had been right all along; Thomas was obsessed with Sam. No, that wasn't strong enough to even begin to describe it. The thing was, Dean didn't know how to even begin imagining it. It would seem Thomas had taken a lot of effort to get into his brother's head. His fears from the bunker had been confirmed when he reached Thomas' room.

On the desk before him sat the leaflet for Oak Park Retirement home, the amulet the girls had made for their musical production of Supernatural and a small notebook. He'd found the first two in the trash, the sight sending a flash of anger through him – how _dare_ he throw away Sam's memories! – before a choking sense of despair cloaked him. He'd pulled the two items out, hunting desperately for anything else he recognised; there was nothing. He'd found the notebook in the bedside table but hadn't dared look in it yet.

Dean hadn't even realised Sam had kept the two items. His mind cast itself back, remembering the look Sam had given him when he'd hung the stage prop from the rear-view mirror in the Impala. It was one of their silent moments; the time when they didn't need to say anything to make their feelings known. The admission that he still valued the small object and what it represented had been another stitch in the repair of their relationship. The way Sam's mouth had quirked up into a small, grateful smile had brought Dean a simple sense of peace that nothing else was ever able to give him.

His gaze slipped to the leaflet and his mind's eye travelled forwards, landing in the bunker's kitchen, a cold can in his hand and Sam's face contorted in anguish opposite him.

 _I should've looked for you. When you were in Purgatory…I should've turned over every stone. But I didn't. I stopped. And I've never forgiven myself._

 _Well I have._

Would Sam ever be able to forgive him for not getting to him sooner now? Did Sam even still know he was looking? The small voice in his mind shouted at him; of course Sam knew! The certainty that Dean was looking for him was guaranteed.

 _All that matters now, all that's ever mattered is that we're together._

He'd meant it then and it still stood now – Sam _had_ to know that. London had to have proved it. He'd found his brother halfway around the world. And yet, he'd never be able to prove it until he was with Sam again, stood next to him, knowing he was really there. After this, he was never going to let his little brother out of his sight again.

Finally, taking a deep breath, the hunter picked up the notebook. He knew what it was. He knew it hadn't been left behind by accident. Thomas wanted him to find it. He shouldn't read it; he couldn't stop himself. Opening it, he began to read the careful, neat script, dated nearly four weeks ago – just a few days after Sam had been taken.

 _Sam is still proving to be difficult. Clearly his time back with that insolent cur has proven to be detrimental to his behaviour. He has forced me to keep him fully restrained in the cellar: a necessity that I was hoping to get past in the first day or so. Despite that, I can't help but admire his strength. I've never known anymore like Sam. He truly is a unique individual. Unfortunately, that's getting in the way of our progress. I've recently finished the sound recordings that I will be using to help reinforce my message – headphones will be sufficient for that and will be accentuated by his sensory deprivation. I intend to keep him gagged and blindfolded unless I'm present, he will eventually associate the positivity of freedom with me. Obviously, he will know that that's exactly what I'm doing (he's far too intelligent to not know), but he won't be able to fight it for long._

 _Today though, he started trying his old tricks of refusing to eat. He forced me to show him that he doesn't have control of his situation anymore. Fortunately I had a funnel to hand – I had expected this kind of behaviour at some point. It wasn't pleasant for him but it was necessary. I will go down this afternoon with a full kit and talk through the process with him. I would rather not go through with it, but if he'd not going to be sensible, I shan't be given the option…_

Dean's lungs burned, bringing him back to the present. He exhaled hard, drawing in another ragged breath, his eyes wide and staring in revulsion at the page. Thomas had force fed his brother? An image of Sam tied to a bed, being told in explicit detail how his captor was going to shove a tube down his throat, forced its way to the front of Dean's mind. It took everything he had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his flask, taking a measured swig of whiskey before he flicked over the page. This one was dated a day later.

 _I decided this morning that it was time for Anna and Sam to get acquainted. They'd spent next to no time together in England and, if we're going to be a true family, they need to start building that connection. Anna has been gracious enough to begin Sam's education. I couldn't believe the absolute tosh I read in John Winchester's diary; it's nothing but a load of unplanned, thoughtless hunts that had no strategy. I'm surprised the idiot didn't get himself and his boys killed sooner…_

Dean's grip tightened.

 _…Sam has clearly been misled by his inept father and miscreant brother. They know nothing of the history behind the noble profession of the Men of Letters and are no better than the monsters they hunt. Luckily, Sam is different – I knew that from the moment we met all those months ago. He's salvageable and has a thirst for knowledge. Exploring his room at the Men of Letters' bunker was such a treat. To browse his favourite novels, see the things that make him passionate…_

 _I digress._

 _I asked Anna to go right back to the basics – to James I's Daemonology – which she was more than happy to oblige with. I left them to it (they can't bond properly if I'm hovering and interrupting!). Yet again, Sam pushed the boundaries. I can't blame him at all; it's stressful having to relearn how to behave in a proper, civilised manner after being exposed to someone with absolutely no decorum. Anna is old fashioned; she is much stricter than me as Sam found out to his detriment. It's another lesson learned though and one that I don't think will have to be taught often. Although it didn't help with their bonding as much as I would have liked, it was wonderful to see the look in his eyes when I got back! He wanted me to be there; he_ needed _me. That's such an important shift for him. Of course, I couldn't pander to his requests – I had to side with Anna. I couldn't do her (or him) the disservice of undermining her work, particularly when she's taken the time and effort to help smarten him up. The shagginess in his hair is no more, thankfully. A true Man of Letters (and member of my household) must look the part._

 _I feel like we're making the first few steps to success!_

His _family_?! Dean ran his palm over his face, forcing himself to put the book down as he closed his eyes against the waves of nausea that flooded through him.

 _He_ needed _me!_

The words echoed in his head; he knew exactly the kind of look Sam would have given. He was all too familiar with it himself and knew what it was like to be needed by his brother. For someone like that bastard to experience it, to have forced Sam into the kind of situation where he needed to use it…

Dean swallowed hard.

It was one thing to see that look when it was a supernatural monster after him, but totally different when he was begging with the same people that were doing it to him. How was Sam supposed to deal with that? That entry had been marked weeks ago…

He flipped forwards a few pages, knowing he would go back and read the others anyway. He needed some confirmation that Sam hadn't given in. That he was still fighting with everything he had. He found the entry dated the day after the tornado. He read the first few words, feeling his heart plummet into his stomach.

 _We're getting there! I'm so proud of Sam and how far he's come in the last few weeks. There's a real, genuine trust building between us and it's the most wonderful feeling. I know there have been small moments of doubts where I didn't know if I'd be able to break Dean's hold on him, but we're finally there. I've been so worried about him; he has been so melancholic lately but I think we'll soon be over this final hurdle._

 _Last night, I experienced my first tornado (an occurrence that I do not want a repeat performance of any time soon!). Awful as it was, it meant that Anna and I had to spend the night in the cellar with Sam._

Oh god…the thought of Sammy having both of those psychopaths staying with him through that tornado was more than Dean could bear. It was worse than the nightmares he'd had about it following that night, having now begun to understand what Thomas was really like.

 _After a few…setbacks and hard truths, Sam has come to realise that I'm everything he needs. We had to have The Conversation, which had the reaction I was expecting. Of course he was distraught; I expected nothing else. But he willingly accepted the comfort I offered him. He's finally ready for my final few steps that are just going to help solidify our connection, removing any and all trace of allegiance to his previous guardians (I shan't call them 'family' – Sam will soon see them for what they really were: foster care at best now that he has me). We're so incredibly close…_

"Dean? Are you alright?" Jody's voice pierced through the silence, her hand, warm and comforting, resting on his shoulder. He looked up at her. Her face was blurry and swimming until he blinked, clearing the tears from his vision. "What's wrong?" she asked quietly, cupping his cheek with her palm and wiping a tear away with her thumb. He simply shook his head, unable to speak, his arm slipping around her waist as he buried his face in her shirt and cried.

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

"Good morning, Sam! You're just in time for breakfast," Thomas greeted brightly, waltzing into the room after knocking.

"Morning," Sam greeted, his voice still croaky with sleep. He'd slept like the dead having finally scrubbed the grime from his skin and shaved off the beard that had been prickling at his face. It had made more of a difference than he'd expected: to bathe and change into clean clothes. He was grateful that Thomas had let him after his behaviour in the car. A brief frown marred his forehead when he saw Thomas' hands were empty; he was starving. Thomas walked up to him, kneeling and unlocking the long chain he'd secured the night before.

"I thought it might be nice if you joined Anna and I for breakfast this morning," Thomas stated, giving him a reassuring smile as he straightened up and pocketed his keys.

"Are you sure?" Sam hesitated, clearly taken aback.

"Of course – it's safe. The house is warded," Thomas lied smoothly, pleased by Sam's uncertainty. His expectations from the previous night were cemented absolutely. He couldn't help testing it though. "Unless you can think of a reason why you shouldn't eat with us?"

Sam shook his head and followed when Thomas beckoned him, trailing obediently behind the Englishman. Thomas smiled to himself, thoroughly pleased. Everything was falling neatly into place. In a few days, he would go out and get Sam some proper attire – tailored suits as befitted a proper Man of Letters; he couldn't spend the rest of his stay in white pyjamas. His other plans were probably working out quite nicely by now. The journal he'd started at the beginning of the month held none of his true purpose in it; he'd written in it purely with the intention of having Dean find it at some point. He was glad he'd had that stroke of genius; the thought of Dean's anguish was…delicious. Having taken such special care with writing the details of Sam's rehabilitation and showing just how far they'd come (with a few embellishments, of course), Thomas knew that Dean would see just how dedicated he was. And just how unfit a brother he had been for Sam.

Anna had been dubious about him leaving it, what with Ketch's unexpected appearance, but he had assured her that there were no compromising details that could lead him to them. They were safe.

He led Sam downstairs, through the light and airy hall and into the dining room. A large, oak table dominated the room with enough seating for ten around its edges. The walls were a simple, clean white, a large mirror mounted high on one wall, adding light and the perception of size. Anna was walking in from the kitchen, a teapot and toast rack in her hands.

"Good morning, Samuel," she greeted as she put the items down on the table.

"Morning," Sam repeated, finding the word strange on his tongue. It all felt…odd. Like he was out of place. Maybe he was. Thomas gestured to the seat at his right while he took the head of the table. Sam slid into the highbacked chair, running a hand back through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. Thomas and Anna sat down as well, setting about dishing out the breakfast items. Sam found himself on edge, homesickness washing through him as he stared down at the table. This wasn't right; he shouldn't be here.

"Tea, Sam?" Thomas asked, Sam's gaze swooping up to meet his. The unease settled instantly and he found himself grounded, a sense of calm breezing through him. He nodded gratefully as Thomas poured his drink. For the first time in a long time, Sam found himself eating civilly at a table, satiating his hunger off his own accord.

Some of the tension began to ebb from his shoulders as he slowly began to eat, listening as Thomas and Anna made idle conversation. It would all be okay; he had faith in Thomas.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Dean's back cracked and popped as he straightened up, the scent of strong coffee wafting under his nose. He groaned as he sat up, the rigid armchair having proved uncomfortable to fall asleep in. The hunter hadn't meant to, but with no alcohol to drown his misery in and nothing electronic to research on, he'd fallen asleep by accident for the first time in years.

"Mornin', sunshine," Jody said gently, offering him a mug.

"Thanks," he replied, sitting up properly and taking it, feeling the scalding heat stretch through his fingers. Taking a large gulp, he ignored the burning on his tongue. "Where's Ketch?" The Englishman had disappeared before Dean had come down the previous night which he was almost entirely sure was planned. While he was beginning to trust Ketch, Dean was never going to show him the depth of emotion he'd let loose with Jody the night before. Ketch had graciously ducked out, knowing that Dean wouldn't want to be seen that way. For that, he was grateful.

"In the kitchen; he was up early," Jody replied, taking a seat on the sofa opposite. She curled her feet beneath her and rested her head on one hand. She levelled her gaze on him. "How you doin'?"

Dean shrugged. "I feel like shit. We need to get out; we can't. Just gonna have to wait for Cas – however long that takes. I'd feel a whole lot better if he could call and say where he is and how long he's gonna be. I'm gonna snap that bastard's neck when we find him. He's pissed me off too many times."

Jody's lip quirked humourlessly around her coffee mug as she sipped at the steaming liquid. Her heart had broken seeing one of her boys so vulnerable the night before – she knew how much Dean had been riding on finding Sam at the house – but at least he was still saying 'when' not 'if'. Despite everything that was thrown at him, no matter how many setbacks they faced, he was still pushing forwards. He was never going to give up and that was the Dean she knew and loved. She just hoped that he could hold onto that. They had no clue when Castiel would get back.

For all their sakes, Jody hoped it was soon.

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin, soaking through his shirt and beading down his forehead. His breath came out in huge gasps as he drew in lungful after lungful of air. Pressing a button, Sam slowed the treadmill to a walking pace, his hand grasping his side where a stitch had set in. Looking down at the stats the machine recorded, he was appalled. He was completely out of shape.

 _It's not like you've had much chance to exercise properly for months._

It was true, but he didn't like making excuses. They didn't help and he was sick of being defenceless. Thomas seemed to have sensed it in him and offered him the use of the small, windowless gym in the basement of the house. It had caught Sam by surprise; he hadn't expected Thomas to trust him as much as he did. Granted, the gym was free of weights – the racks standing empty – and anything else that could be picked up and used offensively and the door was locked, but it was more than Sam had anticipated. The Englishman had been full of surprises; Sam wasn't even sure he deserved them, but he was grateful nonetheless. Taking a long drink from the water bottle Thomas had given him earlier, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his other hand.

Short though his run had been, it had finally given him an outlet for his fear, frustration and his grief. It cleared his mind, helping him to begin thinking logically for the first time in what felt like months. The one thought that kept popping back to the forefront of his mind was escaping. Not Thomas: his mind. He needed to get out, needed to get back to reality but he had no idea how. Thomas had been working on it that much Sam knew.

The door lock clicked and he turned, stopping the machine completely as Thomas entered the room, his shoulders lined with tension, an unusual downward curve to his mouth. The look instantly rippled through Sam's nerves, unease spreading instantaneously.

"Everything okay?" he asked, almost hesitantly as he stepped off the treadmill. Thomas looked him in the eye, handing him a towel, but his expression stayed the same.

"We need to talk, but it can wait until after you've showered," Thomas replied, holding the door open. Sam stepped past him, wiping the sweat from his face with the towel. He knew better than to press the Englishman so they walked upstairs in a tense silence, Thomas trailing behind him. "I'll leave you to it – I'll be back in ten minutes," Thomas explained, shutting the door behind his ward.

The Englishman turned away, relaxing as he walked back downstairs again. His little performance was yet other test – he was thoroughly enjoying the results he was getting – one of many he'd performed throughout the day. Sam had passed every single one unwittingly, firmly cementing Thomas' faith in their bond. Of course, the spell helped – that's what it was designed to do – but it was deeper than that; they had a true connection; he was certain of it. The feeling…it was everything he wanted.

And it meant Sam was finally ready.

"Have you told him yet?" Anna asked, looking up from her novel. She was sat in the living room, her feet planted primly on the floor, the hardback balanced lightly in her lap. Her eyes followed him as he sat down on the cream sofa opposite her. He leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together.

"Not yet – I've told him to shower first. I can imagine that the news is going to hit him hard."

"Are you expecting trouble?"

"No," he shook his head, "he's been excellent today – you've seen it yourself. I will obviously be cautious, but I think, once he's got used to the idea, he'll be fine."

"I just hope he lives up to your expectations. It would be a shame for us to have come this far and lose it all," Anna commented, her fingers idly playing with the pages of her novel.

"We won't – he will. I have every faith. I'll just need to guide him through it properly and make sure he had time to adjust and train," he reassured her. She gave him a reassuring smile and turned back to her book.

oOo

Sam showered quickly, trying to squash his rising panic over Thomas' demeanour and his fear of the water. Whenever the water splashed his face, he flinched hard until he couldn't bear it anymore and got out, slamming the water off and climbing out. Drying himself, he yanked on a fresh set of clothes, all the while trying to halt the storm inside his head. He didn't want to admit how Thomas' body language put him on edge, how his tone of voice had sparked fear down his spine. A tiny, quiet corner of his mind shouted that it wasn't right, that it wasn't okay, but it was lost beneath the avalanche of thoughts and speculations.

Emerging from the bathroom, he paced the bedroom, unable to sit, but knowing he should wait rather than venture out. Again, the voice screamed at him, but, again, it was drowned out by the roar of his anxieties.

"It's open!" he called when a soft knock sounded at the door. Thomas stepped in, his expression still grave. Sam's stomach dropped and his heart picked up. The Englishman motioned to the bed with one hand as he closed the door quietly.

"Sit down, Sam," Thomas instructed softly. He felt his body doing as he was told; his mind almost disconnecting as though he was watching from above. Thomas sat beside him, the bed depressing down under his weight. He turned towards Sam, his hands clasped on his thigh, his knee touching Sam's leg. "I've got news for you. As you know, Anna and I, along with the rest of the British Men of Letters, have been working, trying to find out how to get you out of here. It has been an…arduous task. Lucifer has covered his tracks well and a lot of the lore we've been referencing contains too much hearsay so we've had to cross-reference everything which, of course, takes time so I apologise for not telling you sooner."

"Why do I feel like you're about to tell me there's no way out?" Sam murmured, his mouth dry. Thomas' eyes widened and he reached out a hand, placing it on Sam's arm, giving it a squeeze.

"Not at all, Sam! On the contrary: we found the way out!" he reassured, his voice rising. The panic in Sam rescinded minutely. He frowned in confusion.

"I don't understand…"

"I need you to keep an open mind with this, Sam," Thomas interrupted. Sam nodded slowly, keeping eyes fixed on Thomas. "Lucifer's hold on you is strong – stronger than any other form of possession, but that we already knew. It means that expelling him cannot follow ordinary conventions. We've concluded that Lucifer – at least a part of him – is constantly present here, with you, watching."

"It's the kind of thing he'd get off on," Sam muttered, disgusted.

"Exactly," Thomas nodded, keeping his hand on Sam's arm. "Now's the…tricky part. To get you out, we need to kill Lucifer using a particular spell we've uncovered. It will expel him from you completely, but I can't do it – only you can."

Sam swallowed, his fear and hatred of the Devil warring inside him. "I can do it. That's not gonna be a problem; point me in the right direction and I'll do it," he growled softly, his teeth clenching. Thomas' look turned pitying. Sam's frown returned and his confidence faded. "What aren't you telling me?"

Thomas was silent for a few moments.

"Open mind, Sam," he repeated and Sam nodded, feeling the warmth spread beneath Thomas' fingertips. "As you said, watching would be the kind of thing he 'gets off on'. It would seem that that wasn't enough for him; he needed to play a part, be a role. Influence you."

Dread spread through Sam and he moved backwards, knowing where Thomas was going with this but not wanting to. He could feel his head beginning to shake from side to side.

"He knows that if you found him – the real him – you'd know something was wrong; he was meant to be gone from your life. He needed a disguise: to be hidden in plain sight but someone who you'd never suspect. Someone you'd always trust. Someone you'd never hurt."

Sam stood up, backing away slowly, still shaking his head.

"No."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Your information's wrong. Has to be," Sam choked out, eyes wide. Thomas shook his head.

"It's not, Sam. We've checked over and over. You knew something was wrong: you _knew_."

"I can't–I won't–he's my–"

"No, Sam, he's not," Thomas murmured, eyes fixed on Sam. "He's not your brother, not Dean. He's Lucifer. And he has to die for you to be free."

Sam turned and ran into the bathroom, the sound of retching coming instantly as a small smile played on Thomas' lips.

oOo

 **Please don't hate me but please do review! (There is a plan, fear not!)**


	25. Ready to Say Goodbye

**Thank you to all those who have read, followed and reviewed! I loved seeing your reactions to the last chapter! Also, thank you to anyone who enjoyed Happier With You.**

oOo

 _"Hello, remember me?_

 _I'm everything you can't control."_

 _\- What You Want, Evanescence_

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

His world was made of flames: consuming, incessant fire that burned and flashed through him, eating away at all he had left. Everything _hurt._ From the scratching of the material rubbing his back raw to the strands of hair that raked across his forehead whenever he moved, it all sent spears of agony through his nerves. He tried his best not to move; it made his head bang and throb, words rolling like marbles around his mind.

 _He's not your brother, not Dean._

He knew that; he did. Dean was dead, killed by Amara in the real world months ago. Light lanced through his right eye; he jerked his head to the side trying to escape it. Someone spoke to him, their tone soothing, but he couldn't work out the words as the light disappeared.

 _He's Lucifer._

He moaned, his lungs radiating heat that scorched out with every breath but it didn't hurt as much as the words ricocheting around his head. Thrashing, he wanted to dislodge them, drive them out but he didn't have the energy or the power. They merged with the fire, licking through his nerves and grating down his spine. He wanted to die. He couldn't.

 _He has to die for you to be free._

Beyond the depravity of the fire, Sam knew the real torture lay waiting for him.

oOo

"It's alright, Sam," Thomas soothed as he used his thumb to pry open his ward's eye, his light scope clenched in the other fist. Sam jerked away, a guttural moan crackling up his throat. The Englishman sighed and lowered the scope, turning the light off and placing it on the bedside table. He rinsed out a cloth in a bowl of cold water, noting the small, involuntary flinches coming from Sam as the water drops tinkled back into the bowl. Smoothing out the material, he placed it across his forehead, brushing the locks of hair from his face, some of which were already damp from previous applications of the cloth. Chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully, Thomas leaned back in his chair, watching Sam shiver and convulse in small spurts.

"I brought you some tea," Anna said quietly, startling him as she entered the room silently.

"Thank you." He took the mug gratefully. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her eyes falling on Sam as well.

"How is he?"

"Same as yesterday; I'd hoped that he would've broken the fever by the morning but it's certainly doing a number on him." Thomas explained as he blew on the top of his tea, the steam billowing out. It had been two days since he'd told Sam about Dean and the shock had been too much for the younger man's already ravaged immune system. The exhaustion, stress and shock had destroyed him. It wasn't part of the plan, but it was to be expected. And, for Thomas, any opportunity he had to show his dedication to Sam was a welcome one.

They had time.

"I'm sure he'll be better soon; do let me know if you need anything," Anna offered, her hand disappearing from Thomas' shoulder, her frown dropping when he looked up at her.

"Could you get me some fresh water? I don't really want to leave him," Thomas asked, giving her a bashful smile. She nodded and took the bowl from the bedside table, carrying it out and downstairs, knowing Thomas wouldn't question her about why she didn't just fill it up in the bathroom; he never questioned her decisions. She shuffled down the stairs, her feet brushing against the carpet soundlessly as she moved into the kitchen.

The countertops were spotless, the black marble gleaming in the soft light that poured in through the window. Tipping the used water down the sink, Anna filled it once again with icy water, humming softly to herself. When it was nearly full, she shut the tap off and carried it over to a host of jars and pots that were set out neatly on the opposite worktop. A small wooden bowl sat amidst them, already full of black powder from the ingredients she'd ground down. Double-checking the open book next to it all, Anna hooked out a spoonful and dropped it into the water, giving it a gentle stir. The water fizzed and bubbled, turning black. She carried on stirring until the fizzing stopped and the water swirled clear again.

The Englishwoman smiled to herself; it wouldn't affect Thomas – he was awake – but Samuel…he was in for a treat. She was really beginning to feel that spell work was a newfound talent of hers. Holding the bowl in both hands, she made her way back upstairs.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Dean's hands shook. The tremors had started the day before, rippling through his fingers and up his arms. They weren't bad enough to be a pain, but for someone who hated showing weakness, Dean wasn't impressed that they'd appeared. It was hardly surprising though. He'd tried to ration the pitiful amount of whiskey he'd had left in his flask, but, after reading Thomas' journal, he hadn't been able to stop himself from downing the rest of it. That had been two and a half days ago; outside of Purgatory, he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone longer than a day without drinking. He'd searched every room, high and low, but there was no trace of anything even vaguely alcoholic in the whole damned house. Forcing him to sober up properly, knowing that he could do nothing to help his brother in the meantime was Dean's true idea of hell. If he did end up in the Pit eventually, he could see Crowley recreating this for him over and over.

Jody and Ketch had both steered clear of him since his mood had started to rollercoaster, instead letting him be alone, sitting and staring into nothing one moment and trashing one of the upstairs rooms the next. He couldn't stop himself. One of the windows upstairs was smashed, the glass somehow littering the grass below, but still the occupants couldn't leave. They'd been forced to start turning their phones off – not that they were any use anyway – in an attempt to conserve power. Dean would turn his on every few hours, hoping to have something – anything – come through but it never did.

He just wished Cas would hurry up and get back.

Jody had taken up the watch of the front of the house, sitting in the window with a coffee in her hand as she stared out. Her back was against the wall, her legs stretched out along the wide windowsill in front of her. The occasion car or truck would drift past in the strange slow motion that only distance created. Ketch sat at the desk, favouring it over the sofas, writing in a neat script that she was envious of when she'd caught a glimpse of it earlier. Maybe all the Men of Letters had to have special handwriting practice; she guessed it 'wouldn't do' (as Ketch would put it) for their handwriting to be the quick scrawl that most other people settled for.

"Where are the closest big cities outside of this state?" he asked, breaking her from her reverie. Jody's gaze slid over to him, as he looked up at her with piercing eyes. She pursed her lips, thinking, mentally pulling up a map of the Kansas and its surroundings.

"Depends how 'close' you mean and 'big'. In the west there's Albuquerque, Denver and Salt Lake City; the east there's Memphis, St Louis and Chicago; and in the south you got Dallas."

"What about the north?"

"Not so many 'big' cities up there; that's my neck of the woods and Sam's familiar with Sioux Falls and the area around it."

"So they're not likely to go there," Ketch murmured, making another note.

"What if he was double-bluffing it?"

Ketch pondered it for a moment and then shook his head. "No. Thomas would know I'd suspect that but I think he would be too uncomfortable being somewhere more familiar for Sam – our lad would have the advantage and Thomas won't want that."

"Why big cities though? Surely taking Sam to a busy area is a bad idea too."

"On one hand, yes, absolutely. Thomas won't like to be around a lot of people, but it's very easy to be inconspicuous in amongst a large populace. Especially when…" he stopped; it was one of the first times Jody had seen him hesitate.

"Especially when what?" she pushed. There was something in the tone of his voice that rolled an uneasy feeling through her gut. It was backed up more when his gaze flickered to the stairs and he lowered his voice; he didn't want Dean to hear.

"Sam is not going to be as defiant as his brother wants to believe. In fact, I doubt Sam is anything but compliant by now," Ketch murmured. Jody shook her head adamantly.

"Sam's strong, there's no way –"

"There is Jody, believe me," he interrupted with a sureness to his tone that made her pale. "I've read that journal. Some of it is embellished – done to goad Dean – but Thomas' methods are not; he will have done all those things to Sam and more. Sam spent months subjected to physical torture at the hands of Lady Bevell and now he's been psychologically tormented for a further month. He wasn't in a good mental place to begin with.

"I have _seen_ the effects of the types of techniques Thomas has used on him; I've used many of them myself during interrogations. They're unpleasant and designed to wear down your target. I've never had anyone last more than three weeks under those kind of conditions so the fact that Sam has been experiencing them longer doesn't bode well."

Jody swallowed, turning her face back to the window and the peaceful scene outside as she tried her hardest to rein in her emotions. When she spoke, she kept her face turned from Ketch, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"Then we need to get him back quicker; he'll be okay once he's back with us – his family. Just…don't let Dean hear you say that. He needs any hope he can hold onto right now."

"We'll do what we can," Ketch replied quietly, his tone even and calm, hiding the doubt that flickered across his face. If holding onto their deluded hope was what kept them going, he wasn't going to jeopardise it. After all, the fallout from all of this wasn't his concern.

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

 _Everything was muffled, like his head was in a bubble. Disconnected. Strange. The first time he tried to move, Sam's limbs felt heavy like he was fighting against a current. It was unsettling when he tried sitting up and felt the cotton shift around in his head._

 _"Thomas?" his voice was thick and distorted. Silence answered him. Waiting for a few moments, he concentrated, pushing past the sluggishness in his muscles until the world cleared. He couldn't remember what had happened before he'd fallen asleep but his instincts told him it hadn't been good. He needed to find Thomas; he would know._

 _Climbing off the bed, he headed for the door, twisting the handle quietly and opening the door. Beyond, it was silent and still. "Thomas?" he called again, his voice clearer this time. An uneasiness settled itself in his gut, pulling on his nerves. Something was wrong. His feet made no sound against the plush carpet as he walked, breaking into a jog, heading down the stairs._

 _Still he could hear nothing._

 _The kitchen was empty, as was the dining room and the living room. Panic began to rise, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead as he raced through the house, shouting for Thomas. He skidded to a stop in the hallway, his eyes alighting on the front door, widening as he watched it swing gently to and fro. Thomas would never leave it open._

 _Ice clutched his insides._

 _Racing forwards, Sam slammed the door shut with both hands, fumbling with the lock, even though, deep inside, he knew the horror that was already in the house. He stood for a moment, forehead pressed against the door, the glass cold against his heated skin, eyes screwed shut as he fought the fear that spread its tendrils through him like vines. He knew what was in the house._

 _He couldn't face it._

 _And yet his feet turned him and walked him back in, taking him to the door to the basement: where the gym was located. Sam didn't want to go down there but it was magnetic, pulling him, controlling him. Choice wasn't a luxury he had and soon he found himself grasping the handle and twisting it downwards._

 _The stairs down seemed longer. Ominous._

 _One leaden foot fell in front of the other, dragging him down. He expected it to be full of darkness, but light streamed through the windows, illuminating every corner. Lucifer had always liked to defy convention._

 _Stepping down into the basement, Sam choked, his eyes widening and his cry lodging in his throat as he stared at the carnage before him._

 _"Sammy, I'm not ready; you coulda waited a bit for your gift," Dean's gravelly tone sent warring pangs of comfort and despair rushing through Sam, the despair smashing through the comfort in an instant. His brother's body stood facing away from him, but the solid back, squared shoulders and short brown hair was so familiar, so missed, that it robbed Sam of his breath. He wanted it to be his brother so badly. Knew it wasn't._

 _His eyes travelled past the broad shoulders encased in the worn green jacket and rose up, staring in horror at the blood-stained wall, a mangled corpse hanging from it. Two handheld weights had been dismantled, the metal handled shoved through the body's wrists, pinning it out like a crucifixion._

 _"I thought it was fitting since he was here to 'save' you." Dean's hand was covered in blood as he shaded in the wall behind the body using his fingers, creating a grotesque parody of angel's wings. Sam's mouth opened and closed soundlessly as he finally registered Thomas' face beneath the ruins of blood. Anna's prone form lay at Dean's feet, unrecognisable._

 _Sam felt his feet back up._

 _He blinked and bumped into something warm behind him, his brother disappearing and reappearing behind him in that single blink. Something rammed into the backs of his legs and he yelped as he pitched forward landing on his knees. A hand snaked around his neck, strong fingers grasping his throat._

 _"What do you think, Sammy? Do you like it?" Lucifer crooned in his ear, his words infecting the voice Sam had waited to hear for so long. His fingers scrabbled against the hand around his throat, trying desperately to prise the fingers from around his neck, a shudder passing through him as Dean's face nuzzled up against the side of his head. "How does it compare to my other works of art? I know you've been admiring them, getting sneak peaks," Lucifer goaded him, his breath cool against Sam's ear._

 _"Let…me…go," Sam rasped, squirming beneath the hand that squeezed. He gasped as he was picked up and flung round, landing on his back on the floor, his brother's body landing on top of him, sitting on his torso and pinning his arms to his sides. Sam stared up, frozen, too afraid to try bucking the devil off him._

 _"We've got so much catching up to do, bunk buddy and you've been so…disobedient," Dean's face grinned, its look holding a maliciousness unlike anything Sam had ever seen from his brother. His eyes widened when the once warm emeralds of his eyes turned a vibrant red, pulling a forgotten memory to the front of Sam's mind._

"'Course I did," Dean murmured, his smile sad as he looked down as Sam. "You always come first. You know that. It's my job to look out for you."

Dean's words wrapped him in warmth as he succumbed to the blackness that called to him, barely registering the red that flashed through his forest green eyes.

 _He'd known. Even when he'd thought he was on the plane back from England, he'd known. The signs had been there. He'd just been too naïve to see them._

 _"You were meant to stay in your place, play the part I gave you. It was what you wanted," Lucifer sighed, shifting his weight on Sam as he reached down, lifting up Sam's shirt and placing a cool hand against his stomach._

 _"I never wanted this," Sam choked out, his eyes flicking from Dean's contorted expression to his hand again. Lucifer tutted, the sound strange coming from Dean's tongue._

 _"Don't lie to me, Sam, you know I don't like that. I made things good for you. Gave you what you wanted: your brother, your life. It was perfect."_

 _"It was a lie."_

 _"But you were_ happy _, Sam. I didn't want this. I was looking forward to playing the sidekick in your little adventures. You would've finally realised how…attuned we are. It wasn't meant to be this way. Those idiotic Brits just had to get involved," Lucifer grumbled, bending Dean's fingers and pressing them into Sam's abdomen._

 _There was no time for musings as agony ripped red hot through his torso. A screech howled from his throat as he writhed. Lucifer dug in deep with one hand._

 _"I had assumed that you –" he began, but Sam wasn't listening, unable to hear over his second scream. The sound died as a smothering hand slapped down over his mouth, stifling his cries. The fingers dug deeper. "…As I was saying, I had assumed that you wouldn't trust them. They did unspeakable things to you, Sammy; you've grown far too trusting," Lucifer continued, leaning forward, his face inches from Sam's. He looked up at the imposter, wide-eyed and imploring. He convulsed as the clawing went deeper, reaching inside his stomach. "But, that's okay. Y'know what? I think I can do better than them. It's not like you can die anyway – it'll be just like the cage. What d'you think, Sammy? Shall we see how creative I can be?"_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Ketch watched Dean curiously. He'd surrounded himself with hunters throughout his working life in the Men of Letters, taking charge of them, using them. They were simple people who did as they were told without asking questions. Dean Winchester was a curious creature to say the least. The Englishmen had been…intrigued by him in England. The hunter had more fire than Ketch had ever seen before; his job was his calling, his whole life. It wasn't a way to make ends meet as was the case with many of their own hunters; most of them were mongrels: sadistic criminals who had been picked up and selected before they could cause real damage to society. Rather than fill up England's prisons with them, the Men of Letters had utilised their ferocity and given them an outlet for their savagery.

Dean Winchester was a killer, but he wasn't like the others.

"Why do you hunt, Dean?" he asked, his slate grey eyes fixed on him. They were sat at the dining table, both nursing coffees. Jody had long gone to bed. Dean had his elbows on the table, taking another mouthful of the burning liquid as he shrugged.

"It's what my family does."

"Your whole family?"

Dean paused, eyeing Ketch contemptuously. "Look, no offence, but I really don't feel like goin' into a history lesson about how my family got into the life. We hunt. End of."

"But why do you hunt with your brother?" Ketch pressed, unfazed by Dean's tone. The steely look from the hunter would've made most other men back off, but Ketch just ignored it. "The more I know about the two of you, the more I can help. I don't pry unintentionally, Dean; I have no desire to do so."

Dean's lips pursed into a hard line and scowled.

"Why _wouldn't_ I hunt with him? We're a good team. We make each other better at what we do."

"Do you though?" Ketch asked softly, holding up a hand when Dean's look turned furious. "I'm not trying to incense you or belittle what you do. But I am curious as none of our hunters have any kind of emotional bond. We find it slows them down. At the end of the day, none of us would be here if you and Sam lead separate lives."

"You don't just ditch family. That's not the way it works," Dean ground out through clenched teeth. "You work with James and he's your kid."

Ketch sipped his coffee, pondering Dean's statement. "While we are both Men of Letters, we have never worked alongside each other."

"So you never worried about him when he went off on a job without you?"

"No."

Dean's frown became confused. "But he's your kid. That's got to mean somethin' to you."

"You clearly have a more…sentimental view of family than I do. The Men of Letters requires its members to have legacies. James was mine," Ketch shrugged.

"That's why you could do whatever it was you did to him in England," Dean murmured, appalled. He pushed his coffee mug away, not wanting to be a part of the conversation anymore but found himself curious about the bizarre Englishman.

"I did what was required of me. Emotions don't come into play when dealing with members gone rogue. I have a duty to do and I do it without question. No more, no less."

"That's not the way me and my brother work. Yeah, we've tried workin' separately before but it's never ended well. I'd never just leave him. He's my brother: lookin' out for him is my job."

"And you put that duty above all others?"

"Every time." Dean's answer was out before Ketch had even finished his question. There was never any doubt for the older Winchester when it came to Sam.

"Then we need to prepare for that," Ketch remarked. Dean cocked his head to the side, confused. "Thomas will know that and use it to his advantage. When we are released from here, we must proceed with caution. We must let Thomas continue to think that he has the advantage and use it against him. If we can."

Dean stood, nodding his approval.

"We do whatever it takes to get Sam back. No holds barred."

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

A deep groan rattled up from his chest, ending in a dry cough that sent hard convulsions running through his body.

"Sam? Can you hear me?" A concerned voice drifted through to him, its owner sounding far off. Sam continued coughing, trying to claw his way back to consciousness properly.

"Thomas?" he croaked between coughs.

"I'm right here, Sam. Here, drink this." He felt a pointed object being pressed to his lips. Opening his mouth, Sam sucked on the straw, gulping down cold water, letting it wash away the scratch in his throat, helping the coughing to subside. Finishing it, he eased his eyes open, blinking against the soft glow of the bedside lamp. "Welcome back," Thomas' face came into focus, his smile gentle but his brow furrowed with concern.

"How long was I out?" Sam asked, easing himself up higher on the bed, Thomas moving instantly to help him. The Englishman fluffed the pillows and repositioned them carefully behind his head.

"Three days. Your fever broke sometime around two am; it's eight in the morning now. I was worried," Thomas smiled softly, brushing Sam's hair from his forehead. The touch helped settled him; the crucified image flared beneath his eyelids when he blinked, making him flinch. The move didn't go unnoticed. "How are you feeling?"

"Better – tired," Sam replied, out of breath despite having done nothing but sit up a bit more. He couldn't let that happen – not after everything Thomas had done for him.

"I'm not surprised. You've been thrashing around for nearly a whole day. Were you dreaming?"

 _"Shall we see how creative I can be?"_

Had it only been twenty-four hours? It had felt like years. Every agony he could imagine, all performed with his brother's face looking down at him. The way he would smile…Sam swallowed, his mouth instantly dry. Lucifer had managed to take away everything from him. Again.

"Sam?" Thomas' gentle prod pulled him from his reverie. His eyes had welled without him realising and he took a shaky breath, trying his hardest to regain his composure.

"I'm alright," he tried a small smile that fell quickly from his lips.

"No, you're not," Thomas replied, placing a warm, comforting hand on his arm. "You can talk to me. You know that."

Looking down, Sam nodded. Dean's contorted, maniacal laughter rang in his ears.

"I was stuck in a nightmare about Dean – about Lucifer," he corrected himself. The helplessness, the despair rose up again, washing through him, threatening to drown him. He couldn't feel like that again.

Never again.

"He'll never just let me go back to how things were, will he?" he asked, raising his eyes back up to Thomas. The Englishman shook his head softly.

"No, Sam. I think it's too late for that."

They fell into a heavy silence, Thomas' words hanging in the air. With each blink, another image flashed up.

Dean's face laughing as he ripped into Sam. Thomas' corpse pulled down and dismembered. The walls awash with red.

He ached throughout his whole body; he knew it was the aftereffects of the fever but it was more than that. He remembered - _felt_ – every slice, every hit. There was only one escape from all of it. There was only one person who could help him do that and he was sat right beside him. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Sam looked at Thomas, feeling a resolve he hadn't experienced in a long time.

"I'll do it."

oOo

 **Please review!**


	26. Let the Poison Take Control

**Creepy fact for you: Dr Hess is almost exactly what I picture Anna to be like…**

oOo

 _"And what if I said I believe?"_

 _\- Rescue Me, Black Stone Cherry_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

Spotting the dull, greying monolith of the farmhouse was one of the most welcoming sights Castiel had seen in a long time. It had taken two days to hike out of the snow near Inuvik and a further three (after finding a truck to 'borrow') to get back to Geneva. Five days of stress, unlike anything the angel had ever known, and constant worry about what had happened to everyone. His endless calls to Dean and Jody's phones had gone to voicemail every single time and his own phone remained silent for over three and a half thousand miles. He couldn't fathom why none of them would call. Something had stopped them. His first thought – and the most likely one – hurt the most.

They were dead.

The notion squeezed the air from his lungs and created a rising panic within him which he hadn't felt since Dean was supposed to go and kill Amara. He couldn't deal with that – not again.

The miles had given him a change to clear his mind and think logically, focusing on every possible reason why he'd heard nothing. None of the options were ideal but at least they were better than the first.

Cas wanted nothing more than to get there and find nothing or find both Sam and Dean waiting with Ketch and Jody. Somehow though, he knew that wouldn't be what he got. No one went to the trouble of banishing an angel to the other end of Canada if they knew it was going to be the happy ending they all wanted. If they weren't there, he'd head to the bunker.

Turning the battered Jeep Wagoneer off the road and up the driveway, Cas looked desperately for signs of life. His stomach dropped when he saw the Impala sat in the driveway, exactly where Dean had left it: there was no way the hunter would leave without his car. Slamming on the brakes, the angel leapt from the truck and ran, coat billowing, up towards the house.

oOo

"Cas is here!" Jody's shout had Dean racing down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"Don't let him step through the door!" Ketch roared as Dean got to door and flung it open.

"Cas, stop!" he yelled, holding his hands up, frantically waving them. Castiel skidded to a stop just beside the sigil that had banished him. He frowned, looking at Dean curiously.

"Dean?"

"If you come in, Cas, you'll be stuck. It's warded," Dean explained, still holding up one hand. He felt Jody and Ketch's presences behind him. Cas just stared at him.

oOo

Castiel frowned, watching the hunter's lips move but no sound coming from them.

"What? Dean, I can't hear you. Why can't I hear you?" Cas asked. Ketch's hand landed on Dean's shoulder, his mouth moving silently as he spoke to the hunter. The angel watched as Dean swore, knowing exactly what he'd said. Jody patted him on the arm, holding up one finger to Cas, mouthing 'wait' slowly and clearly. She disappeared into the house again, leaving the three men stood alone for a moment before she quickly reappeared, a white pad of paper in her hands. Ketch smiled and nodded, his words lost to Cas. The angel watched her write something before she turned the pad around to face him.

 _The house is warded. We can't get out._

"That explains why I can't hear you," Cas remarked, frowning when Dean rolled his eyes and muttered. "I _can_ still understand you though, Dean. I take it you can hear me?"

Jody nodded.

"Are you alright?" he asked. The three of them nodded in unison. "Is Sam with you?" He had his answer when Dean looked away, but Jody shook her head anyway. Ketch motioned to Jody, saying something. She passed the pad to him, watching as he wrote. He turned it to Cas.

 _I'm unsure what kind of warding has been used; spellcasting is not my speciality. You need to call +447829841290 and speak to George Williamson. Tell him that we can hear you, inanimate objects can be thrown out but we, ourselves, cannot leave. He will tell you what you need and what to do._

Castiel nodded and took out his phone, dialling the number.

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

"So what's our play?" Sam asked, clearing his throat as he repositioned himself on the hardbacked dining chair. He was already weary and it was only mid-afternoon; his fever had done a number on him and building back up his strength was proving to be slow and frustrating. He wasn't battle-ready by any stretch of the imagination and that concerned him. Taking on his brother, even when he was fit and healthy, was a challenge in itself. Taking on Lucifer when he was feeling next to useless?

The odds weren't in his favour.

"First of all, I don't want to involve you any more than is strictly necessary," Thomas explained. When Sam opened his mouth to protest, he raised a hand, stopping him. "What you're going to have to do is hard enough without having to have prolonged contact. I have no intention of exacerbating your suffering, Sam. I wouldn't do that to you."

"I know," Sam gave him a small half-smile, the sight washing a sense of contentment through Thomas despite the severity of their conversation. If he harboured any doubt of Sam's loyalty, they wouldn't even be having it. Sam had proven to be nothing but compliant and amiable since his fever had broken. It would seem the nightmare he had described had been the defining moment in making up his mind. The thought of having to suffer anything at the hands of his brother was too much for the lad to bear. Of course, that fact that, in reality, it was simply a dream was a moot point. It had finished the job for Thomas in one fell swoop. He'd wished he'd thought of it; it was a blessing that Sam's imagination was both overactive and highly susceptible to suggestion.

"As loathe as I am to do it, I need you to be the lure; Lucifer won't come for less. If he thinks you've escaped from me, he'll come straight away. Remember, he has no idea of the work we've been doing," Thomas explained, watching the apprehension, the fear flicker through Sam's eyes.

"I can do it," he murmured, dropping his eyes.

"I know you can," Thomas encouraged, "but I don't want you to worry about what will happen when he arrives; I'll take care of all of that."

"Taking on Lucifer is gonna be dangerous: you'll need me by your side," Sam remarked, meeting his gaze again. Thomas shook his head vehemently.

"No, Sam, I need you safe. I've got a fair few tricks for dealing with Lucifer. The Men of Letters have been working on a few contingency strategies in the real world, ready for this moment. I promise you, I will make sure that this whole thing is as easy and painless as possible. Lucifer will not hurt you – or me. I guarantee it."

 _You need back-up._

 _I need you to be safe, Sam; that's what I need._

The words were the same, even if the speaker was different. Thomas had the same feeling, the same intentions as Dean all those years ago. Wherever he was, Sam hoped that his brother saw that he was still in good hands. Thomas was watching his back; something Dean would've wanted.

"I get it," Sam nodded. "I'll try to fill you in with as much as I can about the way Lucifer acts and how I think he'll 'play' Dean. He isn't gonna be easy to take down."

Thomas smiled. _Oh, I hope not. I want this to be as agonising for Dean as possible._

"That's alright, Sam. With us working together, he won't know what's hit him."

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

 _Did you bring it?_

Dean held up the sign, his scribbled handwriting almost illegible. He watched Cas roll his eyes.

"Yes, Dean; I wouldn't forget," the angel replied, reaching into the brown bag he was holding and pulling out a bottle of Johnny Walker Red.

"Seriously, Dean?" Jody chided, her frown deepening as Cas rolled the bottle over the threshold. Dean grabbed it deftly and straightened up, shrugging as he walked through to the kitchen.

"S'not like I'm gonna down the whole bottle."

"Yeah right," she muttered under her breath. His prowling had been worse since Castiel had appeared and then disappeared to get the ingredients he needed to break the warding. The hunter hadn't moved from the front of the house; he'd just continuously walked the width of the building from the living room across the hall into the dining room and back again. Ketch had disappeared, muttering something about collecting the things that had been left by Thomas and Anna. Jodie just itched to be out. Five days stuck in the house had been unbearable.

Lowering herself onto the floor, she settled herself in the doorway, sitting cross-legged opposite Cas. He'd scraped away the sigil on the floor so that there was no danger of it catapulting him off again. Now he was kneeling in front of the door, opposite Jody, placing an array of objects in front of him. He glanced up at her and she gave him a tired smile which he returned. His eyes were a darker shade of blue than usual; a weariness lurked in their depths. Picking up the notepad, she scribbled a quick note.

oOo

 _Are you okay, Cas?_

The angel blinked, surprised. He hadn't really thought about it.

"I'm fine. I just wished I'd been back sooner," he replied, crushing a small rodent hipbone in his palm, letting the powder fall through his fist into the bowl.

 _You couldn't help it._

He gave her a brief smile that fell in an instant. There was no way for him to relay the sheer frustration at knowing that a few years ago he would have been able to fly back so quickly that they wouldn't even have known he was gone. Picking up a vial of ox blood, he poured it into the bowl, spattering it with a mix of several different herbs. Finally, he took out his angel blade and nicked the palm of his left hand, dribbling his own blood into the mix.

"I'm going to go around the house and draw this," he held up his phone so that Jody could see the image the Men of Letters had sent him, "at the four corners. You'll need to do the same when I come back and pass the bowl over."

Jody nodded as he got up and walked off. Stopping at the first corner, he dipped two fingers into the bloody mixture and began tracing a circle on the wall. Inside it he drew a backwards 'h' with a diagonal line curved at one end running through it. Tramping around the house, he repeated it three more times before arriving back at the front door where both Ketch and Dean had reappeared. Carefully, he put the bowl on the floor and nudged it over the threshold of the door with his foot. Jody grabbed it, getting it before Dean. The hunter and sheriff glared at each other and, while Castiel couldn't hear what Jody said, the tone of it was in the set of her shoulders. Dean dropped his head and nodded as she disappeared.

The three men waited in silence, punctuated only by Dean's mouthfuls of whiskey straight from the bottle. It didn't take long for Jody to reappear, giving Cas a brief thumbs up. He nodded and pulled out his phone again, reading the incantation he'd been given.

"Lukal y ykzhhkal," the angel intoned, the Enochian sliding off his rich bass tone. The wind whipped around him, smacking his coat tails against his legs. He looked up at the house, watching as a host of symbols began to glow a vibrant blue, getting continuously brighter until the whole house was bathed in light. Dean, Jody and Ketch all shielded their eyes before they were lost to view. Cas simply watched, unperturbed by the blinding light. With a final burst, the light shattered and the symbols scattered across the house disappeared, fading into nothing.

Dean lowered his arm, raised his head, blinking.

"Did it work?" he asked. Cas turned his gaze back to Dean and nodded.

"I believe so."

The Winchester moved forward, stepping cautiously over the door's threshold. Nothing happened as his foot landed on the wooden slats on the porch. Breathing a sigh of relief, he strode out of the house and into the sunlight beyond.

"'Bout time we got a break," Dean mumbled, half turning back to the others. "Thanks, Cas."

The angel nodded as Jody and Ketch stepped out too, the Man of Letters carrying the small number of journals and notebooks they'd found in the house.

"Let's go. We'll get back to the bunker, regroup and decide our next move," Dean ordered, leading the way back to the Impala. Gone was the withdrawn, frustrated man: the hunter within was ignited again and the rest of them struggled to meet his pace without running. Climbing into Baby, the engine snarled and the wheels spun against the dry dust of the track as the backend fishtailed. Dean put his foot down, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

Anna stood in the kitchen, a pen poised in one hand, the other picking up various jars, bags and pots as she ticked them off against a list on the pad beside her. Every item was being processed in the same way: marked off against the list, a sample extracted, measured and sealed before being put in a box.

"Are we missing anything?" Thomas asked as he walked in. Anna shook her head, pouring a measurement of sand from the Nile into a zip lock bag.

"Where is Sam?" she inquired, keeping her eyes on her list.

"Down in the gym again. He's very determined. It's a good sign."

Anna said nothing; she simply sealed the jar of sand and put it to one side, placing the bag in the box. Thomas frowned, concerned. He leaned up against the counter beside her. "What's the matter, Anna? You look…pensive."

Her cold grey eyes flicked up to his, her mouth set in a hard line.

"Would it not be more…prudent to kill Dean yourself? I'm concerned that Sam won't go through with it. And even if he does, what then? How will you convince him that he's 'woken up'?" she asked as she began crushing a cat skull with a pestle and mortar, smacking the pestle down on the fragile bone and fracturing it.

"Fair questions," Thomas replied, picking up one of the bags and rolling its contents between his fingers. "The concoctions I've been lacing Sam's drinks with are the preliminary part of the binding spell. For the main event, the ritual demands a familial sacrifice. Fratricide. If I want Sam to be unequivocally bound to me, he _must_ be the one to do it. And he will: I know it.

"As for getting him to believe it, that'll be part of the ritual: a bit of theatrics. When he kills Dean, it will undoubtedly have some sort of physical backlash. If it's not quite enough, I'll have a back-up spell to render him unconscious, giving us enough time to set up our new life. When he wakes, the ritual will be done and Dean won't be a bother anymore."

"And what about Mr Ketch?"

"I'm sure we'll be able to come to some sort of agreement with the Men of Letters. If not, I'll do whatever I need to to keep my family safe."

"Then that's good enough for me. I trust you, Thomas; I always have," Anna replied, smiling at him as she emptied the ground up skull into another bag. Her smile tightened as she thought of the aftermath. She would let it blow over, let Sam get comfortable before he too would meet his fate.

Only then could she and Thomas live in peace properly.

oOo

Sam breathed out evenly with every lift of his torso, his hands cupped behind his head as he pulled up into another sit up. He lay on a foam mat, his knees raised as he rose up to meet them, facing away from the main room. The memory of his nightmare was still too fresh. And yet…he had to use the memory. Seeing his brother's face contorted into that grotesque smile, his teeth bared into the parody of laughter, brought a lump to Sam's throat that he had to fight down constantly. He _needed_ to learn to push aside his fear. Going up against Lucifer for real, no matter how 'easy' Thomas tried to make it, was going to be so much worse than what his imagination could drum up.

It always was.

Instead, he used it. Tried to change it. He looked deep inside until he found happier memories. Ones of him and Dean in the Impala, of their moments laughing, joking, enjoying the simple things. The simplest were the best. He thought back to when they were sat on the waterfront, by the lake, sipping beers in the sunlight with his arm in the sling.

When it was all said and done, as much as he knew it would hurt Thomas – he regretted that the most – he would protect the world from Lucifer one last time. Billie could help him do that.

But, for now, he watched as every single Dean in his memories contorted, his expressions twisting back into the vulgar form of Lucifer, his howls of laughter overpowering every ragged breath that Sam exhaled.

Control it. Use it.

Only then would it be over.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Ketch stood in the library, his hands clasped at the base of his spine as he stared down at the map of the Midwest states which he had stretched across one of the tables. He'd pressed several thumb tacks onto its surface, mapping out where they'd been: the bunker, the farmhouse, Jody's big city suggestions and the other places they'd visited in the last few weeks. Jody sat opposite him, Dean's laptop open on the table.

"Alright, how many upmarket suburban areas in Memphis?" he asked, his grey eyes narrowed and fixated on the map.

"Just in Memphis?" Jody asked as she typed.

"Yes. Nowhere else."

"Alright…" she finished typing, her eyes scanning across the screen which glowed softly. "Okay. Just in Memphis, there are five areas ranked amongst the safest in terms of their crime rates."

"Read out their names for me," Ketch instructed as Dean entered. The hunter watched them curiously, turning his attention to the map as Jody reeled off the names. They'd all showered and changed into fresh clothing having spent too many days in the same attire. Ketch was in another identical suit (Dean was beginning to think he didn't own anything else), Jody in her usual plaid. His mind played back through his memories; they should've pegged her as a potential hunter, based on her attire alone, from the moment they met her all those years ago. A brief smile glimmered through his features but was gone in an instant. He would have time to take a stroll down memory lane when Sam was back home with them.

"What're you doin'?" he asked, settling himself into the chair at the head of the table.

"We're trying to work out where Thomas might've gone next," Jody explained. Ketch glanced up at her.

"Don't stop."

"Sorry. Collierville," she continued as Ketch closed his eyes and shook his head after a few moments.

"No. He's not in Memphis."

"How could you possibly know that?" Dean asked, doubt creasing his forehead while the green of his eyes betrayed his astonishment. The Englishman had continued to amaze him with his ability to deduce information and rationalise his theories from the most minute details. Ketch gave a small exasperated sigh, his lips pursed as he looked over at the Winchester.

"Years of experience. I know Thomas – not well, but enough to know his character – but it comes down to a simple set of logical rules. Thomas will pick a suburb – somewhere on the edge of a city, but not too far out, giving him access to a range of local amenities. He'll want it to be well-to-do and quiet, however he won't want to be conspicuous either. There's also the name of the location to consider," Ketch explained as he used a black marker to put a cross through Memphis on the map.

"What's in the name?" Dean asked, his look curious. Ketch gave him a rare, brief smile.

"Everything, Dean," he replied. "Why do we pick some places to visit for our holidays and not others? What makes one name for a child so appealing but not another? It all comes down to our preferences and tastes. One man's meat is another man's poison as the idiom states. Thomas may be less…fussy about names, but, I can assure you, Anna is not. She will have standards that she will not let slip and Thomas will do all he can to meet her exacting requirements."

"How can you be so sure?" Dean pushed further. He knew he was holding Ketch up but he also needed to understand his prey just as much as Ketch did.

"The farmhouse. It was much larger than he needed for his purposes. On the outside, it was nothing spectacular. The inside was immaculate though, particularly the kitchen. Anna has very traditional values and, to her, the kitchen is her domain."

"You're tellin' me he picked that house for the _kitchen_?" Jody spluttered, incredulous. Ketch nodded.

"That, its isolated location and the storm cellar, yes. Remember when I discussed Thomas' obsessive behaviour before?" Both Dean and Jody nodded as Ketch continued. "The journals we found obviously support my original theory but they were more enlightening than that. We know he wants a family. It would appear that Anna and Sam are the pillars of that delusion. Therefore, keeping Anna happy is of the upmost importance to him besides Sam's wellbeing. We can use that to help us pinpoint their location."

"No wonder Markham sent you," Dean remarked, his tone betraying his admiration. Ketch was seemingly full of surprises. As much as he hated to admit it, the hunter was beyond glad that he'd been sent to help. Straightening up, he looked up the Ketch, he eyes hard and determined. "What do you need me to do?"

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

Thomas seethed, ripping the headphones from his ears. His family ideals were not _delusional_. Rage flared through him, white hot, his fists clenched into tight balls, his nails digging in deep.

Ketch.

That psychopathic bastard thought he knew everything! Sitting there, listening through the bug he'd planted in the bunker, to Markham's attack dog theorising about him to that _stain_ and his girlfriend was almost more than the Englishman could stand. He wanted nothing more than to knock Ketch off his horse and bash his brains out. He was too close, too accurate with his predictions and that was the most infuriating factor. Thomas was _not_ predictable, not average, and to be reduced in that way…was galling.

Yet it also sent a cold wave of fear crawling like ice through his gut. Dean Winchester couldn't destroy his plans; he wasn't clever enough by half.

But Ketch could.

There was a reason why Arthur Ketch had earned his reputation in the British Men of Letters. His infamy was renowned throughout the whole of the supernatural world in the UK. Monsters and humans alike feared him and Thomas was no exception. As much as he wanted to see Ketch pay for his interference in Thomas' business, he couldn't do it. He couldn't go up against Ketch. If he tried, he'd lose everything and that wasn't something he was prepared to do.

After all, pride came before the fall.

Thomas would be damned if he let his pride ruin everything he was building. Putting the headphones down and closing the audio app, he got up. It was earlier than he would like, but it was time. He needed to get the final phase underway before Ketch found where they were. After Dean was dead, it wouldn't matter. They would leave without a trace and he would begin his negotiations with Jonathan Markham.

Locking the laptop away in the top drawer of the desk in his bedroom, Thomas walked back through the house, looking for Sam. He found his ward in the living room, sitting in one of the plush cream armchairs, his grey eyes unfocused as he simply sat and stared out of the window at the neat garden beyond.

"Penny for your thoughts," Thomas prompted gently as he eased himself down into the adjacent armchair. Sam blinked and turned to face Thomas, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth briefly.

"To be honest, I wasn't really thinking about anything. I was just…watching. I can't seem to get a grip on how Lucifer managed to make all this seem so real," Sam replied, his longs fingers brushing over the smooth surface of the chair.

"He is one of the most powerful beings in the world. Who knows how far his reach really extends," Thomas murmured, resting his chin on his fingertips, watching Sam carefully. "Anna has had contact with the real world. We've got a lead on Lucifer's location there. I know this is much earlier than we'd like, but…"

"We need to go after him now," Sam finished quietly. He shifted in the chair, one hand running back through his hair.

"For this to work, it needs to be a simultaneous attack: from in here and out there. We need to make our move as soon as possible," Thomas explained, watching as Sam tried to control the fear, the uncertainty that bubbled up within him. "As I've said, I want this to be as…smooth a process for you as I can make it. I'll ensure that everything is ready for you. But I need you to make the first move for me. We need to lure him out."

Sam shifted in his seat again, unable to slow his heart which had picked up its pace, thumping against his ribcage. He could already feel his palms begin to sweat. It would be fine; Thomas would make sure it was fine. And yet, knowing that he would have to hear his brother's voice for real and know that it wasn't Dean…it was far from an easy thought. He licked his lips, his right thumb brushing over his left palm out of habit.

"When I talked to him the last time, he said the British Men of Letters were coming to help. I can't see him coming without back up – Cas at the very least. Dea–Lucifer's not stupid," he remarked, correcting himself quickly. Thomas' look turned thoughtful.

"Don't worry: I think I know a way around that. Right, we need to start getting ready. Are you sure you're alright about this?" Thomas prodded. Sam gave him a sad smile.

"Not really, no, but then I don't think I ever will be. The sooner we get it done, the better I'll be."

Thomas nodded and led the way out of the living room, Sam trailing behind.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The garage was quiet, peaceful. It wasn't like the quiet of the farmhouse; that had been oppressive, enforced. Usually Dean hated the silence – it gave him too much time to think – but for now it helped him focus. He was rummaging around in the back of the Impala, sorting through the weapons that were stashed under the false bottom. Ketch and Jody were still going through locations and Cas had started to go through the bunker's registry of spells. Thomas had more than proven himself capable of using strong magic and they weren't going to go up against him half-cocked again; they would use every kind of weapon they had in their arsenal. It was overkill, but it was one of the times that Dean wished they still had the Colt. Once Thomas was dead, he wanted the bastard to stay that way. Hell, he was even tempted to contact Crowley and see if he could reserve a decent place for him in the Pit. It would mean owing the King of Hell a favour but…

That was the kind of favour Dean wouldn't mind owing.

Eternal damnation was too good for the son of a bitch. The hunter contemplated the kinds of torture he'd want practiced on the Englishman as he unsheathed one of his machetes, inspecting the serrated edge for any residue left from previous vampire hunts. He scraped off a small bit of dried blood with a fingernail before sliding it back into its casing. Placing it carefully back in its hole on the righthand side of the trunk, he checked the ammunition boxes for his gun, making a mental note to grab more from within the bunker later. Tucking the box back in its compartment, he jumped when he felt his front left pocket begin to vibrate in his jeans.

 _Please be Sammy._

The mental chant had been the same every time his phone went off. His heart thrummed; the others were all in the bunker – they'd come out if they needed him. Fumbling with one hand, Dean yanked the phone from his pocket and flipped it over.

Unknown number.

 _Please be Sammy._

Swiping it with his thumb, he jammed it up against his ear. Held his breath.

"Dean?"

"Sam!"

oOo

 **MWAHAHAHAHA! Sorry…not sorry! Obviously we're getting closer to climax time!**

 **Please review!**


	27. End the Suffering

oOo

 _"Now it's your turn, the ashes will burn and wither away."_

 _\- Feed the Machine, Nickelback._

oOo

Then:

 _Unknown number._

Please be Sammy.

 _Swiping it with his thumb, he jammed it up against his ear. Held his breath._

 _"Dean?"_

 _"Sam!"_

oOo

Now:

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Dean's heart skipped a beat and the knot loosened in his stomach at the sound of his brother's voice. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Baby's cold surface, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Sammy, are you okay?" he asked, pressing his phone hard into his ear, almost wishing that, if he pressed hard enough, Sam would be there. This needed to be the end; this needed to be the chance he had to get Sam back. He couldn't take another failure.

He just couldn't.

oOo

 **West Homer Street, Chicago**

He sounded so…genuine. So much like Dean. The concern laced through his tone was everything it was meant to be and it jabbed straight through Sam's heart. He didn't need to act: the tears that welled and fell were real. He looked to Thomas who nodded reassuringly, reaching out one hand and squeezing his shoulder.

"No…I'm really not," he choked, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself. He sat propped against an old desk in the warehouse, fixing his eyes on the square of sunlight that poured in through the window. They'd left the house an hour beforehand, arriving in the abandoned warehouse where Thomas had walked him through how everything would work. The Englishman stood beside him, keeping close constantly, reassuring him.

"That's okay, Sammy; it is. Talk to me: where are you? What happened?" The knife twisted deeper, sending wave after wave of agony through him. Despair, sorrow and anger warred in him. That Lucifer could manipulate him so easily…he hated it. But for now, he needed to use it. The hatred would have its use later.

"I got out – he thought he could trust me. He was wrong," Sam whispered, flicking his gaze to Thomas who nodded encouragingly, "it's taken me this long to get a cell phone."

"That's good, Sam," Dean soothed. While he tried to fight it, Sam couldn't deny how listening to his brother's voice brought him comfort. He didn't want _anything_ from Lucifer and for his bond with his brother to be tainted by him…

 _Hold it onto it. Use it._

"I need you to tell me where you are. Look around: what can you see?" Dean's voice prompted. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to reign himself in. Thomas patted his leg gently.

"You're okay: keep going," Thomas mouthed, smiling again when Sam looked up to him. His knuckles whitened around the phone.

"I'm in an industrial area – I don't know which city," Sam lied, swallowing hard.

"That's okay, that doesn't matter. Can you see a street sign, any business signs?"

Thomas pointed across the street, out through the window.

"I ran past a Gas'n'Sip down the road. Hang on," Sam paused, as if he was looking around, nodding in acknowledgement to Thomas. "I'm on West Homer Street."

"Gimme a sec," Dean's voice muttered. Sam closed his eyes, fighting the trembling that was brushing through him. Thomas' hand was warm and reassuring, keeping him grounded. He couldn't do it without him.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

"I'm just bringin' it up, Sammy, stay on the phone," Dean explained, his voice exuding a calm that his fumbling fingers betrayed as he switched his phone to speaker and brought up his map app.

"Okay."

He hated the way his brother sounded; he'd thought Sam had sounded awful the last time he'd managed to escape. But this time…this was so much worse. He sounded hollow and anxious – there was no confidence in his tone. Pushing the thought aside – he'd deal with it later – Dean punched in the street name, relieved when it popped up. Chicago.

"You're in Chicago, Sammy," he confirmed, taking the phone back off speaker. "Are you near where you were kept?"

"No. I got out and ran."

"That's good," Dean smiled tightly. "I need you to find somewhere to hide – somewhere you don't think he'll find you. We'll be there before you know it."

"We?" he frowned at the uncertainty in Sam's voice.

"Yeah, Cas, Jody and Ketch from the British Men of Letters are all here. They've been helpin' me–" Dean explained.

"No!" Sam's bark was strangled. "You can't. I need _you_ , Dean."

"Sam they're here to help–"

"Dean, you need to listen. Ketch has been working _with_ Thomas. You can't trust him." Dean's blood ran cold. His world vacuumed, sucking the air from his lungs and the sound from his ears, leaving him in a strange bubble that had him leaning against Baby for support.

"What?" It came out harsher than he meant it to.

"I heard him – Thomas – on the phone; he was talking to the Men of Letters. He was talking to Ketch. You can't bring him. Please don't," Sam begged. Dean hadn't realised how hard he was gripping the phone until he heard the plastic groan in his hand.

He would kill him. Best in the Men of Letters or not, having _anything_ to do with Thomas' plans put an instant death sentence on the Englishman's head. Clenching his teeth until his jaw ached, Dean tried to reign in the rage that threatened to sweep over him and drive him back into the bunker to gut Ketch there and then.

"Please, Dean," Sam repeated, his plea piercing through the anger that was beginning to engulf him. He'd deal with Ketch, but not yet. Sam needed him.

"Okay, okay. I won't. I promise," Dean reassured, fighting to quell the fire that burned hot just behind his eyes. Sam needed him strong, not raging. "I need you to do two things for me, Sam, alright? Turn the GPS on on the phone you've got. Then you're gonna text me every half an hour until I get there. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah, I can," Sam's voice was small, smaller than Dean could bear.

"I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm comin' for you, Sammy; I'll see you real soon," Dean reassured, already heading back into the bunker.

"I'll wait. Hurry, Dean, please." The phone disconnected and Dean swallowed his anger.

Ketch.

He trusted his brother; if Sam said there was something going on with Ketch then he believed him. Yet he didn't have the time to confront the Englishman. He'd deal with him later. But he couldn't just leave; the bastard would suspect something. Looking down at his phone again, Dean swore under his breath. Chicago was a ten hour drive; Sam needed him there _now._ Running a hand over the bristly stubble on his cheek, he calculated his next moves, looking for the best option. There was no magic solution for this; he had to go with his gut.

Striding back into the bunker, he bypassed the library, heading for the corridor to the archives through the war room instead. A quick sidelong glance placed both Jody and Ketch at the table in the library, still working on Sam's location – a moot point seeing as how Ketch apparently knew it.

Dean's fists clenched.

Cas was busy in one of the side rooms when Dean found him, his head buried in a book. He looked up when Dean approached, noting straightaway the hard glint in his eyes.

"What happened?"

"Sam just called," Dean replied, his voice hard. Cas' eyes widened.

"He got out? Where is he?"

"Chicago. We need to go. Now," Dean barked, but kept his voice low; he didn't want it travelling down the corridor. Cas frowned.

"Are Jody and Ketch ready?" he asked. Dean gave a minute shake of his head.

"We're not going with them."

"What? Dean, we need all the back-up we have –"

"Cas, listen to me. Sam said that he thinks Ketch is workin' with Thomas. I ain't got time to question him; I _have_ to get to Sam. I can't risk him turnin' tables on us when we're there; he needs to stay. Jody can keep an eye on him. No, I don't wanna leave her with him, but we haven't got a lot of options right now," Dean hissed, fixing Cas with a glare, watching the angel's frown morph into a look of shock, horror and then anger. He nodded his understanding. Dean gave him a tight smile. "Go to the Impala; I'll meet you there."

Cas nodded again and slipped out, going the same way Dean had come. Dean followed him to the door but turned right, heading towards the library from the kitchen, passing through his room to grab his jacket on the way.

When he entered the library, Jody looked up and smiled, the look dropping when she saw his expression. He shook his head when she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, instead holding up his phone in a wordless gesture. She nodded in acknowledgement, slipping her own phone onto silent. Ketch simply stared at the map.

"I'm headin' out for a supply run – we've got nothin' left in the kitchen. Either of you want anythin' specific?" Dean asked, standing at the head of the table.

"No. Thank you," Ketch replied without looking up.

"Nah, I'm fine," Jody answered, her eyes tightening slightly around the corners as she scrutinised Dean's look. She knew instantly that something was up.

"Alright. I'll be back later. Text me if you find anythin'," Dean called as he headed out towards the garage, his phone already out as he typed a message to Jody.

 _Sam called. He's on West Homer Street in Chicago. Says Ketch is working with Thomas. Watch him – don't tell him where I'm going._

He hit send and walked out of the bunker, jogging up to the car where Cas already sat waiting for him.

It was time to get his brother back.

oOo

 **West Homer Street, Chicago**

 _It's Cas. Dean and I are on our way. No Ketch._

 _I'm in an old shipping warehouse: the third one on the right. I'm okay._

Sam read the message thread again and again, his eyes glued to the screen. It was the second text he'd sent: an hour had passed. If Lucifer was planning to keep this 'realistic', he'd been there in another nine hours. A large chunk of Sam wished that he wouldn't – that he'd just pop up – so that they could get this over with. He was so tired of waiting all the time.

And reading the texts over and over again wasn't helping, but he couldn't stop himself. It was like a scab he just couldn't stop picking at even when it began to bleed. He knew it wasn't Dean – he did – but it made him feel like Dean was really coming and really cared and that was what he hated the most: that Lucifer knew that's how he'd feel and was using it against him. Playing with his emotions, like always.

No more.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Ketch paced the length of the library table, his mind turning over and over. Something was missing, something was off. While he wasn't a particularly empathetic individual, he could feel the tension rising off Jody. At first, he'd pegged it as frustration at not pinpointing Thomas' location. Yet it was morphing, moulding into an anger that he couldn't place.

He looked at his watch for the first time in a while. Dean had been gone for three hours.

Looking at Jody again, his eyes scrunched around the edges as he scrutinised her. The sheriff was on the laptop still, her fingers running over the keyboard, but her eyes kept darting back to her phone which sat on the table beside her. Since Dean had gone, it hadn't lit up once, but it was like she was waiting for it to do so. She hadn't paid that much attention to it before, so why now?

"I'm just going to get a glass of water; do you want one?" he asked, keeping his suspicions from his tone.

"Yeah, that'd be good, thanks," she replied, barely looking up at him. He strode off, heading out towards the kitchen. The bunker was quiet: too much so. Walking past the kitchen, he headed for the archives, his hackles rising as his suspicions rose. Swinging around the doorframe, Ketch's eyes narrowed at the empty room.

The angel was gone.

There was something amiss and he didn't like being in the dark. Just to be sure, he checked all the rooms out the back but found them all empty.

Dean had lied and Ketch wanted to know why.

Soundlessly treading back towards the library, he strained his ears and was rewarded with the sound he had expected.

"…No, I don't think he suspects anything, but it's not gonna be long," he heard her murmured, keeping her voice deliberately low. There was a long pause. "Look, I'll do what I can, but Ketch isn't an idiot and eventually he'll put two and two together…yeah, I'll be safe. You too. Call me later."

Silence reigned again and Ketch stayed where he was for a moment, absorbing what he'd heard. Something had happened and they were keeping him in the dark. Surely they had to know that that was detrimental to helping them find Sam? Unless they thought he was compromised or that Thomas had lured Dean out. Either way it had to be a trap: one that the imbecile was driving straight into. Ketch scowled. Hunters were too impulsive, too emotional. If they lost Sam now, it was their own fault.

Striding back into the library, he locked his cold gaze onto Jody who looked up at him, frowning when she saw his hands were empty. Her shoulders tensed as he loomed over her.

"Would you care to explain what's going on?" he asked, bypassing the niceties. There wasn't time. Jody just stared up at him; he could see her mind whirling behind her eyes. His jaw clenched. "Jody, the longer it takes for you to tell me, the more danger you're putting Dean – and Sam – in."

She swallowed, but her gaze didn't leave him.

"How long has it been goin' on?" she asked, her voice hard steel. He frowned.

"How long has what been going on? I don't care for games, Jody."

"Neither do we," Jody snarled, standing abruptly and drawing her gun in one fluid movement, aiming it straight at him, her hold unwavering. "How long have you been workin' with Thomas?"

Ketch balked, eyebrows lifting momentarily in surprise. He regained his composure almost instantly. _Clever lad._

"Is that what he told Dean?" he scoffed.

"It's what _Sam_ told Dean," she hissed, keeping her aim true. Her knuckles whitened. Of course. There was no way Dean would believe Thomas. But his brother? Dean would never doubt him.

"Jody, I need you to listen to me very carefully," he kept his voice smooth and calm, raising his hands, palms up. "Do you remember what I told you about Sam and how Thomas had probably broken him? This is _exactly_ what I was talking about."

Jody shifted uncomfortably.

"What evidence have I given you to doubt my intentions?" he asked. She shook her head, readjusting her hold on the gun.

"You haven't," she murmured.

"Precisely. Why would I be sent over, by the Men of Letters, to help Thomas when they want to bring him in as much as you do? I have no interest in his delusion: my loyalty is to my Chapter," Ketch continued, lowering his hands. "If I was working with him, why would he trap me in the farmhouse with you all _without_ killing Dean? That would be the most efficient way for me to remove Thomas' greatest obstacle. Why would I be wasting time with you trying to locate them if I already knew where they were?"

Jody's grip loosened but she didn't lower the gun.

"For whatever reason, Thomas has managed to convince Sam to draw Dean out. Now, Sam may not know the purpose of it, but I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that it will be a trap that _will_ get Dean killed. That's what Thomas wants. If Dean is alive, he will never stop hunting for his brother: I know that, you know that and, most importantly, _Thomas does._ His delusion can only be fulfilled with Dean permanently removed from the situation. And I can tell you this with absolute certainty too: if you don't tell me where they've gone, if you continue to stall, Dean _will_ die. That won't be on my conscience: it'll be on yours. Can you live with that, Jody or are you going to let me do my job?"

Throughout his whole speech, Ketch's steel gaze hadn't left her face once. Unorthodox though he was, Ketch had grown on her and she'd trusted him. She considered herself to be a good judge of people and the more he spoke, the more she realised he was right.

They'd been played. Again.

"Shit," she swore, lowering her gun and running a hand back through her hair. "Chicago. They've gone to Chicago."

Ketch gave one hard nod and looked at his watch.

"They have a three-and-a-half-hour head start on us. We'd better get a move on and hope we're not too late."

oOo

 **I-80E, Outskirts of Iowa City, Iowa**

Dean fingers drummed continuously on the steering wheel, the motion creating random noise rather than any real tune. His nerves hadn't stabilised at all for the last seven hours. The only thing that had stopped him from going nuts were the text messages that Sam sent routinely every half an hour on the dot. Cas read each one out and each one elicited a small sigh of relief before the worry set in again for the next half an hour. It was a self-perpetuating cycle that would only stop when they got there.

He'd never wished for Cas to have his wings back more – not even when he'd prayed for it in the farmhouse. Sam was sitting there alone in some warehouse, waiting for him, waiting for Thomas to find him. His little brother was hugely vulnerable, maybe more so than he'd ever been, and Dean wasn't there for him.

His foot etched down harder on the gas pedal.

"He'll be there, Dean; it'll be fine," Castiel deep bass voice interrupted the silence, expelling it like a balloon that was overfilling.

"I know he will," Dean murmured, overtaking a truck with ease. "I just don't know how we'll get back to 'fine' when we get there."

"What do you mean?"

"Getting' Sam outta there is my first priority. I want him as far away from that bastard as I can get him. But there's no way he gets to live after what he's done. Thomas will die; I'll make sure of it. Ketch too when I find out what he's done."

Cas averted his gaze out of the window at that, hiding his deception.

 _Ketch isn't involved. We're coming after you. Don't tell Dean – I don't want him to stop or start worrying even more._

Jody had sent the text a couple of hours ago – thankfully his own phone was on silent – and he'd done as she'd asked. By the time they'd catch them up in Chicago, they would be able to explain everything. Dean was still talking, the angel's reverie going unnoticed.

"…Findin' him ain't gonna be easy, but I get the feelin' that he'll try to find us first. Not that it matters; he ain't ever gonna lay a hand on Sam again," Dean growled, his glare fixed on the road ahead. Cas nodded his agreement. Dean wasn't looking for a real conversation; he was just ranting to make himself feel better.

He just hoped that it worked out how it should.

oOo

 **West Homer Street, Chicago**

Sam finished typing the latest text and dropped the phone on the desk beside him. He was sat on the old workspace (since the chair was missing), his back leaning against the wall as he stared out of the window, watching the clouds roll by. They did so lazily, the wind light as it brushed them across the sky.

Was this what it was like for Dean as he waited for Amara?

Sam tried to picture it: seeing his brother standing tall, confident, the way he always did even when he was scared, facing off against The Darkness. Only Sam was able to see past his façade.

 _No chick flick moments, c'mon._

 _Yeah, you love chick flicks._

 _Yeah, you're right: I do._

The memory brought a sad smile to his face. Even in the face of impossible odds, comforting Sam had been Dean's first instinct. His heart squeezed. Dean's connection to Amara had made his task the biggest challenge of his life; he'd openly shared with Sam his feelings about her, letting Sam see how hard it was going to be. At the time, Sam hadn't been able to empathise. Understand, yes, but not fully. Now, he got it.

His eyes flicked to the time on the phone again.

He couldn't deny it; Lucifer had picked the perfect cover. He'd played Dean so...perfectly that it was difficult to remember who was lurking behind those green eyes. Sam thought back to when he'd supposedly escaped England. The way he'd been cared for during his detox, the comfort, the relief and the way he was made to feel safe. So completely and utterly safe, simply because he thought he was with Dean. The nightmares had remained – there was no way he wouldn't have them no matter how protected he felt – but he'd thought that it was all over.

Then Thomas had come and he'd assumed that he was the monster. Looking back, Sam couldn't believe how wrong he'd been. Unethical though the Englishman's methods had been, he could see their true purpose, which was exactly what Thomas had said all the way along. As…agonising as it had been, Sam knew he would never have accepted what Thomas was trying to tell him at the beginning; Lucifer's hold was too strong. Being free of the devil's – of anyone's – influence was a liberating feeling and one that he clung onto.

Maybe that had been Dean's motivation all those months ago: knowing that he'd be free of Amara's hold over him once he'd set that bomb off. Despite the distance and the fact that they were completely disconnected, Sam felt a renewed unity with his brother. Dean had done it: beaten the toughest opponent and saved them all. He could live up to his brother's legacy: he could do the same.

He looked down again. The minutes clicked closer.

oOo

 **North Winnebago Avenue, Chicago**

The Impala rumbled down the quiet residential road, lined on either side with cars. Dean had driven past the Gas'n'Sip Sam had mentioned and the end of West Homer Street, but the Impala was too conspicuous. If Thomas was looking for Sam, and knew Dean would be too, he'd be looking for the car. Dean couldn't run the risk of giving Thomas a pinpointed location. Instead, he made his way down North Winnebago Avenue: it was close enough that they could fetch the car in a hurry, but far enough away to keep their true destination concealed. Finding a space between a Toyota and a Buick, Dean eased the Impala in before cutting the engine, leaving them surrounded by silence.

"Okay, this is how it's gonna work," Dean began, half turning towards Castiel. "We're gonna scout the outside of the building and go in through different entrances so we can cover the whole building – I don't want surprises. I want Sam outta there as quick and safe as we can. Whoever finds him first calls the other. If you spot that bastard, you gut him, y'hear? As much as I wanna gank him myself, I want him dead quick."

"Of course," Cas replied, giving one hard nod. Dean gave him one back before pulling out his phone, opening the car door at the same time. The squeal intermingled with the dial tone on his phone.

oOo

The phone in Sam's hand rang. He looked at the screen and then up to Thomas. The Englishman nodded. Swiping the screen, he brought it up to his ear.

"Sammy, y'there?"

"Yeah, I'm still here, Dean," Sam replied quietly, running his free hand back through his hair nervously, hating the sick feeling in his gut.

"Alright, me and Cas are here – we're a couple of streets away, but we're comin' to get you. You still in the same place?"

"Third floor, in an office," he confirmed, aching when he could almost see Dean's confident, grim smile; the one he got when he knew he was on the right path.

"We'll be there in a few minutes, just sit tight," Dean's voice reassured him before clicking off. Sam dropped the phone into his lap, staring down at it. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at Thomas.

"He's here – with Cas."

"That's alright; we knew he wouldn't come alone – the real Dean would always bring Castiel," Thomas soothed, motioning Sam up off the desk. His ward did as he was asked obediently. "Let's get you out of here – you don't need to be involved in this bit. It's going to take a little while for me to get him set up, and obviously I'll come and check on you, but I need you to be patient for a couple of hours more, Sam. Then we'll all be free."

Sam nodded, giving him a worn-out smile, trailing behind him and up the stairs to the fourth floor.

oOo

The warehouse was an old shipping building; standard redbrick with a large metal door facing the street and a smaller door sitting to its left. Surprisingly, none of the windows above were smashed despite the building's apparent abandoned air. Walking around its perimeter revealed another door and no one else around; the whole street seemed to be disused. It was too quiet for Dean's liking, but then, every abandoned warehouse he'd ever entered on a hunt had been the same.

"Alright, I'm gonna head back to the front and go in that way. You go in this way and we'll meet on the third floor," Dean instructed. Cas nodded and Dean clapped him on the shoulder before heading off, his gun drawn. The angel watched him go before reaching out and snapping the door handle, breaking the lock. He stepped into the dark, his eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom within as he pulled his angel blade out from the folds of his coat. Closing the door softly behind him, Cas walked in, his gaze roaming through the large anteroom he was stood in. It was empty save for a few crates and scraps of paper, the kind left when a building was abandoned in a hurry. His footsteps echoed gently in the cavernous room as he headed towards a set of metal stairs on the other side of the room, keeping his hearing strained, listening constantly for any sound or signs of life. The metal rang dully beneath his feet as he walked up, his eyes fixed on the doorway in front of him.

Something shuffled up ahead.

"Sam?" Cas called softly, his brows furrowing. No answer. He carried on quickly, the angel blade poised and ready. Reaching the door, he saw sunlight gleaming in through the dirt-encrusted windows opposite. Again, the room was vacant save for a few overturned chairs. Something wasn't right though and the hairs on the back of his neck began to bristle. Swinging around, he found himself facing a woman, her eyes full of malice, a tight smile sneering at him.

"Goodbye," she said simply, her bloodied hand poised over a sigil. Cas didn't even have time to yell before she smacked her palm to the wall. The symbol glowed red hot and shot him from the room in flash.

Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, Anna wrapped it around her palm.

"One down, two to go."

oOo

Light filtered down onto the floor of the room as Dean stepped up the final stair and onto the second floor. His heart wanted him to run straight to the third floor, to find Sam, but his head remained level. As with all hunts, he needed to eliminate the possibility of any threats first. Sam was waiting for him and trusted him to do this right. There was no way he was going to let some stupid mistake stand between Sam and his freedom. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he walked in, gun raised, shoulders tensed. His eyes swept across the whole room, taking in everything in minute detail – not that there was a lot to take in. A few old work benches lined two of the walls – there was no crawl space beneath them – and a cupboard to the left of the stairs revealed nothing. Closing that door quietly, the hunter readjusted his grip on his gun before walking around the cupboard to the next set of stairs. Gazing up them revealed nothing – again.

"Sam? It's me," he called, wanting to announce himself as he started making his way up the stairs. The last thing Sam needed was for him to just appear. No one answered. Dean's heart began to thrum. No answer didn't mean something bad. Sam was being careful. Nothing more. Walking up, Dean's breath caught in his throat and his grip tightened.

 _Please be there._

His heart hammered against his ribs as the stairs groaned beneath him. The room ahead was full of sunlight. Sam would want somewhere he could see everything – no shadows for anyone to lurk in. Dean climbed the final step and swung into the room.

"Sam?"

The room was empty.

 _No. No no no no no._

Dean swallowed hard. He swung his aim to his right and then his left, covering the whole room. Again, he couldn't see anyone. Where the hell was he? Why didn't he say he'd moved? Dean let go of his gun with one hand, reaching into his jeans pocket for his phone. He was about to swipe a call when something caught his eye. He looked up. Sat on the desk, bathed in sunlight, was Sam's memory box.

"What the hell?" he growled softly under his breath, stalking over, his phone lowering to his side, his gun still in the other hand. He was obviously in the right place. Maybe Sam thought Thomas could trace his calls. If he hadn't felt safe, he'd leave another trail to follow, one that he knew Dean would be able to follow. Putting his phone away, he ran his hand over the top, before opening the catch at the front and lifting the lid.

The top burst open off its own accord, jetting a plume of blue powder up into his face. Dean reeled back, coughing, sucking in the dust as his hands went instantly to his eyes, trying to rub the grit from them. He lurched away from the table, unable to catch his breath. He opened his streaming eyes, squinting as the world bucked and swerved, driving him to his knees. Still coughing, he landed heavily, falling onto his side, clawing at his throat as his mouth gaped.

His tear-filled eyes struggled to focus, barely noticing the figure stood over him as his world turned black.

oOo

 **I am in the process of moving house whilst I write this: I promise will try my HARDEST to write quickly (I'm as excited to see how this plays as many of you are).**

 **Please review!**


	28. Finders Keepers

**Thank you so much for all the moving well-wishes and waiting so patiently for this! I hope you all think it's worth it!**

 **Deep breath, everybody!**

oOo

" _Finders keepers, losers weepers."_

 _\- Emperor's New Clothes, Panic! at the Disco_

oOo

 **West Homer Street, Chicago**

Coming back to reality was slow and painful…his mind was clogged with a thick, sludgy feeling. The more he fought it, the harder it sucked him back in, sending him plunging back into the darkness. Eventually, he stopped fighting, instead letting the sludge work his mind back to the surface like a splinter.

He head rolled to the side and heaved up with effort, his neck feeling as though it was balancing a cannonball rather than his head.

"Sam?" His voice was thick and far off, muffled despite coming from his own mouth. He could feel his eyes tighten involuntarily, unable yet to face opening them while he waited for awareness to settle back into his extremities.

What the hell had happened?

Nothing hurt – as such – there was no throbbing on his head to suggest he'd been hit although there was a sharp stabbing in his ribs whenever he took a breath. By the feel of it, at least one was broken. Something – or someone – had had a go at him while he was out. Judging by the way it was pinpointed to one area, Dean assumed he's taken a well-aimed kick. A cold breeze tickled across his skin when he shouldn't have been able to feel it; his jacket and shirt were both missing.

He could move his fingers next after his head. They twitched and spasmed and slowly feeling returned into his hands. Soon enough he could feel a roughness encircling his wrists, one that bit and tore into his skin when he tried to twist and flex his hands. A similar feeling ensnared his ankles.

None of it made sense.

Sam was supposed to be there. If Sam was there, why was he tied to a chair?

Finally, Dean was able to blink his eyes open. Light lanced straight into his pupils, making him wince and screw them shut again, waiting for the pain to dissipate. He eased them open again, blinking slowly. It took a few agonising seconds for his distorted vision to refocus, his legs becoming clear first. The floor beyond was uncarpeted concrete floor that was mottled with dark splotches and dust. He lifted and rotated his head slowly, dragging his eyes from right to left, trying to centre himself. The room swooped as his gaze dragged upwards, flickering over the bare walls, the dirty windows that the dampened sunlight struggled to pierce. The desk was empty…what had been on the desk? His memory dived and rolled until it landed on a memory that was wrong…out of place.

Sam's memory box.

It wasn't there, wasn't meant to be there. He'd opened it then, nothing.

Groaning, Dean jerked, wrenching his arms. The ropes held. He tried again. The yanking burst stars inside his eyes and banged his brain in his head but he ignored it, like always, fighting the pain as he struggled to get loose. Neither was really working.

"Sam?!" he shouted, louder this time, clearer as the fog lifted from his mind. "Sam, y'there? Where are you?!"

oOo

Back and forth. Back and forth. Sam's feet carried him in circles, making him pace the length of the room. He was fighting his lung's desire to quicken his breathing, trying his hardest to contain his agitation.

"SAM!"

Every shout of his name sent a jolt through his heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. It didn't matter how many times his head tried to say it wasn't his brother; his body reacted as it always did when Dean was in trouble. Sam wanted to run. But this time, instead of running to Dean's aid, he wanted to run completely.

 _That's not like you._

Wasn't it? If he was brutally honest with himself, which he always was these days, Sam had no idea who he was anymore. His old life, the one where he had been a confident hunter, a scourge on all things supernatural, was long gone. That Sam was a stranger now and, despite what Thomas told him, he doubted, even if he allowed himself the chance to get back into the life, that he'd be able to. He was broken and he knew it.

"SAM!"

He clamped his hands over his ears, stopping and sinking to the ground, to his knees, curling in on himself. Lucifer was mocking him and he couldn't take it. He couldn't.

Thomas walked into the room, enjoying Dean's torment, his smile vanishing the moment his saw his ward curled into a ball on the floor. He rushed forward, kneeling in front of Sam in an instant and gently clasped his wrists, inadvertently making the younger man flinch at the contact.

"Sam, it's okay, it's me," Thomas soothed, tugging the lad's hands from his ears. Wide, frightened grey eyes rose up to meet his. "What's wrong?"

Sam's response was automatic, like he didn't have any choice but to share. He barely noticed.

"It's _him_. He sounds like Dean and every instinct I have tells me to go and help him. Having to constantly remind myself that he's not my brother…I could deal with it before but, now, hearing, him…he's so convincing, Thomas, and I can't take it," he blurted out, his eyes welling.

"What can I do to make this easier for you? Tell me and I'll do it," Thomas offered instantly, helping his ward to his feet. Sam's gaze darted to the door over his shoulder. He wasn't looking to bolt; Thomas knew that with absolute certainty but he was intrigued to see a war raging behind Sam's expression.

"I need…" Sam swallowed. Oh, this was going to be good; Thomas knew it. If Sam didn't want to say it, it was something he'd never consider wanting done to his brother. Which make that Thomas would be more than happy to oblige. "I need him to stop. I can't listen to him. Please."

Thomas nodded gravely, keeping his expression serious despite the glee he felt inwardly.

"Of course, Sam; whatever you need. Anything to make this easier for you; that's my job – looking out for you," he stated, grey eyes full of conviction. Sam nodded, a grateful smile falling from his lips as quickly as it had appeared. Thomas stepped closer, wrapping his arms around his ward and pulling him into a hard embrace. "It'll be alright, Sam; I promise," he whispered in Sam's ear as he felt the embrace being returned. Sam needed all the comfort he could get and Thomas was always going to give it. The Englishman pulled away first, clasping Sam's upper arms firmly. "He won't be a bother from now on. You have my word."

"Thank you," Sam murmured, watching as Thomas left the room.

oOo

Dean's voice was getting hoarse but he didn't care. Sam should've answered him by now and the fear clawing its way through him wasn't helping; Thomas was behind it – he was sure of it. That wasn't the full premise of his fear though; it was the uncertainty. That the Englishman had put him in his current predicament was a given, but why? Was he planning on leaving Dean to rot? If so, why not just kill him? If he wasn't, why drug him? None of it made sense and yet, Dean was convinced that Sam was still nearby. He'd stake the Impala on it.

Cas hadn't shown up either and Dean could only assume that he'd been banished. Again. Whatever their plan was, they clearly had no intention of filling in the blanks for him.

"Sam, I know you can hear me! It's gonna be okay; I'm gonna get you outta here, y'hear me!" he shouted again, twisting his wrists again. "Just as soon as I can get outta this," he grumbled quietly to himself. His head snapped up and round when he heard the door behind him open. The hunter strained to look over his left shoulder, his glare livid and frightening as the newcomer sauntered in and around him. "What the hell have you done with my brother?!" he snarled, keeping his gaze rivetted on the Englishman in front of him. While he'd never met Thomas in person, there was no mistaking who he was.

He was roughly the same height and build as Dean, but older by a few years – probably in his early forties – with close cropped brown, almost black, hair which was peppered with silver creeping into his sideburns and the trimmed stubble on his cheeks. His eyes were a piercing grey: full of self-satisfaction and triumph, making Dean's blood boil instantly. He clearly thought he'd won as he strolled in, his hands clasped behind his back while he looked down on the hunter.

"So presumptuous, Dean. Sam isn't here because he doesn't want to see you," Thomas replied, his tone patronising. Dean's glare deepened.

"You're a damned liar. I don't know what kinda shit you've been filling his head with but Sam ain't stupid," he spat, flexing his arms again subtly, but still the ropes didn't budge.

"No, he's not," Thomas agreed, surprising the hunter. He circled casually around Dean, prowling, making his unease grow. "That's something that I've always understood about him. Something I don't think _you_ ever appreciated."

Dean didn't bother watching him circle; he kept his eyes straight ahead, trying to fight the urge to rise to Thomas' goading.

"You don't know the first thing about my brother," he growled, keeping his tone even.

"Don't I? Huh," Thomas sounded speculative, his voice directly behind Dean. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. "See, here's the thing, Dean," the hunter gasped as Thomas grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back, making him look up at the Englishman, "Sam _asked_ me to come and do this." Thomas' face twisted into a sneer as his other hand shot out. Dean yelped as something hard was rammed against his teeth. He had no room to jerk his head back so his mouth opened automatically.

"Mmmph!" The hard thing that had hit his teeth was forced between his jaws, filling his whole mouth, pushing his tongue down flat, almost making him choke. He shook his head frantically as the hand in his hair let go, but the object didn't move. Instead, he felt something cold and stiff wrapping around the lower half of his face, a strange tinkling sound, like a belt buckle, coming from behind him.

"You see, Sam doesn't want to hear your inane calling. He doesn't need you; he doesn't want to hear you. Now he doesn't have to," Thomas said calmly, despite the way Dean was fighting. He snapped his head from side to side, trying desperately to dislodge Thomas' grip on the straps. Dean grunted, the sound turning into a drawn out groan when he felt a buckle being tightened uncomfortably hard at the base of his skull. The material pressed into his cheeks almost painfully and the object in his mouth was forcing his jaws open wider than he thought they could go.

"There," Thomas reappeared around to his front, clearly satisfied with himself. "Comfortable? That gag was one of my best instruments in helping Sam…rehabilitate. He became much more compliant after wearing it for a few hours during his retraining."

Dean could only stare up at him in horror, his eyes wide. _Hours?!_ He could already feel an ache starting in his muscles and it had barely been a minute. What the hell had he been doing to Sam?! The string of profanities he wanted to fire at the Englishman were trapped in his throat; a muted growl was the only thing that managed to escape. Thomas smiled viciously.

"Effective isn't it?" he goaded as he walked back around in front of Dean. "To be honest, he was quick to remember his manners – it was only something I had to use on the bad days. We've had a fair few of those, but not recently. The mere threat of it soon became enough." Dean watched him pick up another chair, placing it down in front of the hunter, before taking a seat. He wasn't really…yes, he was. He was going to gloat. Dean's fists balled behind his back, his nails digging into his palms. He couldn't sit there and listen to him. He needed out.

"You see, Dean, you're upsetting my Sam," Dean's shout was kept in check, stifled completely as Thomas leaned back, relaxing into the chair. "He _is_ mine; if he was in here I know exactly which of us he would side with and I can guarantee it wouldn't be you."

It was a lie. Dean knew it had to be. There was nothing – _no one_ – that Sam would put in front of him.

"You don't think so?" Thomas asked, noting the disbelief that shone confidently in Dean's furious green eyes. "How do you think you got here? Do you really think Sam 'escaped'?" he quoted with his fingers and Dean's certainty wavered. "Why do you think he wasn't in the office where he said he would be? Why do you think he's not here right now? He's in an unlocked office upstairs – completely free to come and go as he pleases. He knows where you are. So, ask yourself, why isn't he here, helping you? He doesn't _want_ to, Dean, and that's the truth. We've been working together for this moment – for _his_ moment. The moment when he'll get rid of you."

Dean swallowed as best as he could with the gag nearly choking him. Doubt spread through him and, while he fought it, it brought a cold fear that sent shards of ice up his spine. He hadn't expected the smooth silver-tongue of the Englishman; his arguments were logical, almost faultless, and Sam had listened to him whispering in his ear for a month. Hell, his own doubt refused to be squashed and Thomas had barely scratched the surface. They'd been talking for less than ten minutes. He already knew Dean's insecurities – how did he know? – and he played on them perfectly; what kind of mess was Sam in after a month of this?

 _He'll believe anything Thomas said to him._

No, he wouldn't. Dean couldn't believe it. Sam was strong; he'd always fight it.

"You think very loudly, Dean," Thomas laughed, earning a solid glare from the hunter. "Your denial is amusing. You'll see what I mean later when Sam chooses to come down."

The door behind Dean opened again and he swung his head round, his brother's name an indistinguishable murmur. Footsteps clipped across the concrete floor and Dean knew instantly from the way they sounded that it wasn't Sam. A woman stepped into his line of vision and he stared up at her curiously as she walked around him. She was petite but far from frail; her back was ramrod straight, her frown severe over cold slate eyes that studied him with open distaste. Her dyed auburn hair was cropped close and the lines on her face were not laughter lines. There was nothing soft or warm about her.

"This is him then?" she asked, matching Dean's glare with one of her own. Her perfume, sickening sweet invaded the air around him. It was strong and unpleasant, but he was helpless to avoid it.

"It is. We were just talking about Sam's convalescence and how effective it has been," Thomas replied, smiling up at her. Dean's eyes darted from one to the other. Anna moved closer to Thomas, placing her hand on his shoulder as she sneered down at Dean.

"Oh absolutely. None of this modern 'spare the rod, spoil the child' nonsense with us. Samuel has benefitted exponentially during his time in our care. He knows where his loyalties lie," she gloated, clearly enjoying watching Dean seethe helplessly. Dread filled him as he looked up at them. Their presence alone was overbearing. Thomas was bad enough on his own, but the two of them together was…stifling. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, running his fingers along the rung near the base. They brushed against nothing, but his wrist kissed the edge of a screw head. Settling, he stopped moving, keeping the discovery at the front of his mind.

"I can't believe we've had so much trouble caused by this miscreant," Anna grumbled, as Thomas got up and walked over to the desk drawer. She stepped closer, directly in front of Dean. If his legs hadn't been secured to the chair, he would've kicked out at her. He couldn't put into words how much he wanted to hurt her – how much he wanted to hurt both of them. They would pay for everything they'd done. "He certainly doesn't look like much."

"The worst rarely do. Although, we can all admit that he wouldn't have got near the farmhouse if it hadn't been for Mr Ketch and he _definitely_ wouldn't have got here without Sam leading him by the nose," Thomas replied, pulling several items for the large drawer in the bottom of the desk. "Ketch was the one who has been closest all along. He was right when he told you that I was responsible for Sam's wellbeing in England; a role I take seriously. I didn't appreciate his use of 'obsessive' though. I prefer to think of myself as…passionate about my assets."

The Englishman turned when he heard Dean's quiet grunt, smiling when he saw the confused bunching of the hunter's forehead. "Yes, Dean, I know all about your conversations with Ketch and Jody and Castiel. I left a little something in the bunker when I collected Sam's personal effects."

 _Son of a bitch_. He'd bugged the bunker. No wonder he'd been able to get out of the farmhouse before they'd got there. How much had he heard? The invasion rankled, but it scared him more that he wanted to admit; they were _so_ organised. So precise. He didn't like where any of this was going and the realisation that he'd left half of his back up at the bunker because he'd been made to believe that Ketch was involved filled him with dread. He was on his own; somehow, he knew, Sam wasn't going to be much help.

How could Sammy lie to him?

"Real Men of Letters would never have missed such a device in their home," Anna chipped in, "they would have known to check. Mr Ketch is losing his touch. That's what happens when you're surrounded by imbeciles."

He was getting sick of their insults. Rolling his eyes, Dean snorted and looked away. The less he reacted, the sooner they'd stop goading him and the sooner they'd go. Then he could work on getting loose. Anna shuffled away from him, moving over towards Thomas who was stood with his back to Dean, fiddling with whatever it was he'd pulled from the desk. Dean cautiously moved his arms up, keeping an eye on the pair out of the corner of his eye as he tried snagging the rope around his wrists on the screw head. It caught.

Good.

Lifting back up, he eased his arms back down gently just as Thomas shuffled out of his view. The last thing he wanted was for them to realise he could get through the rope; it wasn't going to be a quick process.

"Right." Strong hands suddenly grabbed either side of Dean's head from behind, making him thrash. Thomas' hand fell away from his right side. "Stop it," the Englishman snarled, cuffing the hunter around the ear. It hurt, but it didn't stop the hunter; he didn't give in that easily. He bucked and writhed, inhaling sharply when Thomas threaded his fingers through his hair and wrenched, his other hand snaking around Dean's throat. His grip tightened, fingers digging in hard enough that Dean knew there would be marks.

"Hold still," he hissed in Dean's ear. "If you don't, I'm going to start enjoying myself. I can be very…creative, Dean. And I'm excellent with hot metal; you've seen my work." Dean wriggled in indignation but a firm squeeze of the fingers digging into his neck stopped him, leaving him gasping for air. "I've been waiting for this for so long…don't tempt me to get indulgent. I don't need you in one piece." The hand around his neck loosened and he coughed, the sound muffled by the gag.

Dean watched Anna come forwards, a bowl in one hand, an artist's paint brush in the other. He shifted uneasily in the chair, still trying to regain his breath, a feral growl emanating from his throat when he felt Thomas' fingers hook through the strap that was wrapped around his head, instantly holding him in place. "That's better," Thomas chuckled sadistically, "do you remember the designs, Anna?"

"You needn't worry; I know what I'm doing," she replied as she stepped closer. Thomas tilted Dean's head to the side, exposing the side of his face as the hunter watched Anna through the corner of his eye. Her sickening perfume assaulted his nose when she leaned forwards. It was overpowering and he groaned, wishing he could breathe through his mouth. The paintbrush was wiped against the edge of the bowl before she lifted it to his face and began to draw. He squirmed but Thomas held fast.

The brush was soft against his skin, but Anna had to return to the bowl constantly; the liquid was cold and too runny to be paint. When she had finished on his cheek, she moved up to his forehead as he watched her constantly, following her movements with his eyes as he fought the nausea caused by her revolting perfume. She bared her teeth in the parody of a grin when she saw him looking.

"It's only lamb's blood; I'm sure you're used to being covered in worse," she sneered. He jerked away but Thomas simply manipulated his head into a different angle, giving her better access.

They would die. He didn't know how yet, but he was gonna make sure of it.

oOo

 **I-80E**

Jody's fingers drummed against her temple erratically as she stared out of the windshield, the highway stretching ahead of them endlessly. Ketch drove silently beside her, his foot pressed down hard at her bidding. She was more than willing to flash her credentials if they were stopped at any point. As much as she hated being a passenger, she knew Ketch driving was the better idea. Her focus wasn't on the road; it was fixated on her boys. Cas had called her an hour before, shouting about banishing sigils and traps. He'd been flung to Seattle and Dean was alone.

It had been a trap all along.

Jody had called Dean's phones countless times; at first it had rung several times before going to voicemail: now it bypassed the rings and went straight to his message.

 _This is Dean's other, other cell so you must know what to do._

Every time she called, her nausea grew. It was a trap. Dean could be dead. Sam could be gone – again. She glanced at the odometer; Ketch was doing 120mph.

It wasn't fast enough.

oOo

 **West Homer Street, Chicago**

Thomas had gone, leaving Dean and Anna alone together. She'd painted several symbols in blood on his face, chest and upper arms; all the while, the pair remaining rough with him throughout. Dean's confusion continued to grow; why were they covering him in symbols? What was even stranger was the weird sigil Thomas had traced on the floor, in more blood, around Dean's chair. It wasn't quite Enochian but wasn't exactly a devil's trap: it was somewhere between the two.

It was almost like they were preparing him for a ritual, but for what? It didn't make any sense.

Anna was over by the table, pouring the leftover blood back into a jar. Dean looked around him, straining his ears, hoping to hear his brother. Floorboards creaked above him, but that was it.

"You know, this whole…expedition has been nothing but hassle," Anna's voice made him jump as she broke the silence. Dean turned his glare around to face her. She had straightened up, looking out of the window, her hands playing with something idly that he couldn't see while she spoke. "When Lady Bevell passed and Thomas asked me to join him, I had expected this revenge business to all be over fairly rapidly so that Thomas and I could get on with our lives. I hadn't quite factored in that nuisance you call a brother." Dean frowned, confusion lighting his eyes. Anna turned to face him, a curved knife twirling between her hands.

"Samuel has been the thorn in my side for far too long: much like you. We've waited a long time to get to this moment and, mark my words, I'll be glad to see the back of you," she spat as she walked forward slowly, putting one foot in front of the other in measured steps. "You see, once you're out of the way, Thomas believes we'll finally be able to be _happy._ " She hissed the word, her lip curling. Dean shifted uneasily as she drew closer. "I couldn't possibly be happy with that pustule around, getting under my feet, snivelling and whimpering all the time. So you see," she leaned forward, grabbing his chin in one hand, "once this is all over with you –" she slid the tip of the knife down his cheek, avoiding the symbol she'd drawn, a slow smile curving on her lips, "it won't be long before Samuel meets his end too."

"Mmph!" Dean bucked, his eyes wide and furious. Anna chuckled darkly, keeping her grip firm on his chin but she dropped the knife down.

"Of course, Thomas doesn't know that and I've discovered some new…talents recently, so I can make it look however I want it to. And I can tell you all of this, Dean, because you're never going to get the opportunity to tell anyone," she crooned, bringing her face close to his. "But, rest assured, I'm going to make your brother suffer – I guarantee it."

Dean howled as the knife tip plunged into his thigh, straight through his jeans and into the muscle. Anna laughed, twisting the knife slowly before pulling it out.

"Just think about that when your brother comes in," she smirked, patting his cheek before wiping the blade on a handkerchief and returning it to the desk before walking towards the door, leaving Dean gasping in agony.

oOo

Thomas had done as he'd said and the shouting had stopped a while ago, but still Sam's relief was palpable. The quiet allowed him to think, to try and centre himself so that he could prepare. This was it; it was finally going to be over. All the torment, all the agony, had led him up to this point.

He could do it. He would.

The door opened quietly and Thomas walked in, his mere presence helping to quell the anticipation thrumming through Sam. The Englishman was the calm in the storm that Sam needed.

"How are you doing, Sam?" he asked gently, pulling up a seat and motioning for Sam to take the one opposite him. Sam sat down opposite him without question.

"Better. Nervous, I guess," he admitted, rubbing the palm of his left hand idly with his thumb. "I just want to get it done."

Thomas nodded, his eagerness rising.

"That's good, Sam; it means you're finally ready. Now, he's prepared for the ritual, but I want to go through everything first so that you know what to expect, alright? I don't want anything to be a surprise to you."

Sam nodded and Thomas knew he had him completely.

oOo

His leg throbbed, a steady trickle of blood bubbling up out of the open wound and snaking down his leg, soaking his jeans. It wasn't bleeding fast, but it was a large wound; it wasn't going to stop without intervention and Dean could already feel himself getting woozy. Jerking his arms up and down wasn't exactly helping to prevent it either, in fact, his heart was thumping hard in his chest as he worked the rope holding his wrists. It wasn't just that though that was sending his heart into overdrive.

 _I'm going to make your brother suffer – I guarantee it._

They'd spent so much time speculating about Thomas that they hadn't really considered Anna. She was the bigger threat and Sam didn't even know. Hell, even that bastard didn't and Dean had no way of warning anyone. If he didn't get free, Sam would die.

He could feel the cord beginning to fray, but he had no idea how much time he had left.

It wasn't much; that he did know.

oOo

Thomas removed his jacket, placing on the chair back before releasing the cufflinks holding his shirt sleeves down as he began to talk.

"The first thing I want you to remember is that he _cannot_ hurt you. He has been restrained, both physically and with a special Enochian trap that I pulled from the Men of Letters' archives. It suppresses his influence and his powers so he will seem human for all intents and purposes," he explained, rolling up his sleeves. Sam listened silently. "He is gagged – as you asked – but I would have done it anyway. He will use every trick in his arsenal to prevent us from doing this and I know how persuasive he can be, particularly if he plays the brother card. You need to be entirely focused – not worrying whether he is Lucifer or not. We know that he is.

"We've painted several different runes on him in lamb's blood; they're the basis for the ritual and, after I've done the incantation, they'll glow red, much like sigils you use to banish angels. That will be your cue," Thomas kept his eyes locked on Sam's, reading his every movement carefully. So far, nothing seemed to phase his prodigy; he was calm and attentive, absorbing the information he was presented with. "There is a dagger in the room, which I'll give to you once we're in there, that you'll need to use. I want you to stand behind him – I'll be in front where I'll say the incantation first and then I'll nod when I need you to use it.

"Now," he shifted, leaning forwards, closer to Sam, "I know this is going to be hard on you and I know how you feel about Lucifer, but this _must_ be quick and clean – we haven't got the time for bouts of anger and revenge, as tempting as it may be. Just a quick, clean cutting of the throat. Just like you've done on many hunts before."

"I will," Sam said softly, shifting uncomfortably, rubbing his palm harder. He had no idea how he'd feel when he got down there: anger, fear, resentment, grief were all viable. It was the same when he'd confronted Lucifer back in Detroit; his determination had started to peter out the moment he got into the old apartment building, replaced by a cold fear that he only managed to suppress through sheer force of will. He could keep himself in check long enough to do it this time.

"Good lad," Thomas smiled, patting his thigh. "When the ritual is complete, you're going to feel lightheaded – in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you lose consciousness as you transition back to your real body. The ritual will expel me and Anna as well, but I'll be there waiting for you on the other side, I promise. Have you got any questions?" Sam was silent for a moment before he shook his head. Thomas stood up, stepping towards the door. "Alright, let's get this done."

"Thomas, wait," the Englishman stopped and turned back to Sam who stood behind him. "Just in case something goes wrong –"

"It won't," Thomas reassured him but Sam put up a hand.

" _If_ it does…I just wanted to say thank you. I know how hard this has been on you, Anna and the rest of the Men of Letters, and I know you could've chosen to just try to kill Lucifer without thinking about me being stuck in here," Sam gestured to the room but his eyes remained locked on Thomas. "I'm guessing you got a lot of criticism for helping me but you did it anyway. I'm grateful."

"I would never abandon you, Sam," Thomas replied, pulling the taller man down into a hard embrace. "You're like family and family never gets left behind." He let go and smiled grimly up at his ward. "Let's get you free."

oOo

 _Almost there._

The ropes were much looser than they had been; he could twist his wrists around now. A sheen of sweat irritated his forehead; he hoped it was washing off some of the crap they'd put on him. His breathing was laboured through his nose and the pain in his leg was making him nauseous. Flexing his biceps, Dean tugged on his wrists, trying to split the remaining rope. It bit into his skin, but didn't budge, not yet. He dragged it over the screw head again.

The door banged open.

 _No. Not yet._

Dean let his hands drop again and he swivelled his head around to look at the door.

"Mmpf!" He locked eyes on his brother for the first time in weeks and his breath died in his throat. Sam's dead grey eyes locked onto his for a moment before sliding away, trailing to the floor as he walked in behind Thomas. He looked…shrunken. Defeated. Like he had nothing left.

Dean couldn't take it.

Sam focused on breathing, keeping his eyes on the floor, avoiding looking at the thing that was supposed to be his brother. He'd allowed himself one look and it nearly crippled him. Instead, he concentrated on breathing, fighting to block the insistent moans that he recognised as his name.

"Well done, Sam; you're okay," Thomas reassured him, sneering down at Dean who glared balefully up at him, his chest heaving. He watched Thomas' eyes flicker down to his leg, but gave it no more attention before walking past him and over to the table, beckoning Sam over with him. Dean howled, trying to grab their attention, to make them listen, but they didn't. He tugged on his wrists again but they held fast.

"Just breathe, Sam, good lad," Thomas murmured, picking up a dagger that was sat next to a gun and holding it out for Sam. He took it, tightening his grip when he saw his hand shake. He needed to concentrate; he needed to be strong for this. It was a long, curved blade which shone a bright silver, like an angel blade, with cursive runes etched down its centre. Thomas' hand was warm on his arm. "It'll be alright; you can do this. I'm right here with you," Thomas soothed, picking up a tome in his other hand. "Let's get it done, shall we?"

Sam nodded mutely and they turned back to Dean who sat, wide-eyed, shifting nervously in the chair. His eyes flickered down to the knife.

Sam had it, not Thomas. He would be fine; Sam would never hurt him. His brother walked behind him as Thomas stepped up in front of him, the tome open and balanced in both hands.

"Let's begin."

oOo

Jody held her breath as she walked into the warehouse. They'd parked her truck outside, not bothering with hiding it; Thomas and Anna were most likely already there and they wouldn't recognise hers anyway. Her fingers realigned their grip on her Glock, keeping her arms straight and the gun pointed at the floor. Her footfalls were soft and silent, avoiding any debris that was likely to make a noise and alert the occupants to her presence. Ketch had gone to scout the other side of the building, leaving the back to her. She scanned the empty room quickly; it was silent. Making her way towards the stairs, Jody climbed them, keeping her ears strained. She could hear something up ahead.

Slowly, carefully, she climbed.

The doorway up ahead was dark; the door was closed. The footsteps continued shuffling around. They weren't heavy; they whispered across the concrete floor. Definitely not Ketch, definitely not one of the boys. They were a woman's footsteps. Jody's grip tightened again.

Anna.

Reaching the door, Jody stood behind it, listening, moving her Glock to one hand, freeing up the other to grip the handle. The door opened inwards, towards the room. She listened. The footsteps came closer. Jody stepped back, letting go of the handle, grabbing her gun with both hands again.

Listened again.

With an almighty kick, Jody smashed the door open, timing it perfectly. A shocked cry mingled with a sickening smack and a thud as the person on the other side was hit full force. Jody leapt into the room, her gun trained on Anna who lay, dazed on the floor, blood pouring from her nose where the door had hit her in face.

"Where are they?!" Jody shouted, standing over the woman. Anna raised a hand to her nose, cupping it as blood dribbled down her face.

"You're too late," she sneered, her nasally voice thin and reedy as blood poured. She started to edge backwards.

"Stay down!" Jody barked, holding her ground. "I don't believe you; where are they?!"

Anna took her hand away from her face, grinning savagely up at the sheriff, blood staining her teeth as she began to chant, raising her hands.

Jody didn't hesitate. Her grip tightened and she squeezed, firing off a single bullet.

At that range, she couldn't miss.

oOo

" _Transferatur foedere juncti et amovebis sangui–_ " A loud bang reverberated around the room, coming from somewhere else in the warehouse. All three of them stopped and looked. Dean's heart hammered. He looked back at Thomas who was staring straight at Sam.

"It's fine, Sam; it's probably just Anna," Thomas said calmly. "Let's continue. We're nearly there."

Dean grunted, shaking his head. Whatever he was doing, it was wrong! Dean's Latin wasn't that great, but the bits he was picking up were definitely not good and he couldn't understand why Sam hadn't realised. What was wrong with him?

" _Sanguinem innocentem._ " Dean struggled, straining hard against his bonds. This needed to stop. Now.

" _Facere consueveras separatum est_."Sam stepped forward, barely hearing what Thomas was saying, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of Lucifer's head. The weight of the knife grounded him, keeping him in the present and fixed on his role.

He could do it.

" _Et ligabis illum ad me._ " Dean looked up at Thomas who gave a slight nod. His breathing hitched when he felt the cold bite of metal against his throat. He tensed his arms.

 _Shit. No, Sammy, it's me!_

Thomas watched as Sam placed the dagger at his brother's throat, the symbols on Dean's chest, face and arms lighting up, glowing bright orange.

"Go on, Sam. It's time!" he urged.

Dean whimpered. All Sam heard was his nickname.

 _Sammy._

The knife stilled. Sam hesitated.

Dean yanked with all the strength he had, snapping the rope around his wrists. _Sorry, Sammy,_ he thought as he raised his arms and elbowed his brother straight in the groin, snatching the knife with his other hand. He lurched up, feet still bound to the chair, and threw himself at Thomas, landing on him and knocking the Englishman to the ground, the chair clattering against the floor.

"No!" Sam's cry melted into the background as the men fell. Dean raised the knife, plunging it down towards Thomas' heart. He grabbed Dean's wrist with both hands, pushing against him, trying to block him. His eyes widened as he stared up into the furious emerald that bore down on him. Dean growled, pushing down with everything he had. A loud bang resonated around the room, shocking Thomas just enough for his grip to slip.

Dean ignored it.

The knife sank down and in, slowly, inch by inch, until Dean had pushed it in up to the hilt. Thomas convulsed, his mouth opening and closing, gasping. With one last heave, he grabbed the back of Dean's neck.

"He's mine," he gasped, sneering up at the hunter one last time before his hand slipped away and his head rolled to the side. Dean slumped over, letting go of the knife, one hand fumbling with the strap around the back of his neck. He wrenched the gag from his mouth, wincing.

"Dean! Are you alright?" His head snapped around as he saw Ketch kneeling beside the prone form of his brother, gun in hand.

"Sam?!" he shouted, trying to stand, but falling with his legs still bound to the chair that had toppled over. He yanked the knife from Thomas' body and sliced through the ropes, scrambling over to his brother. Ketch had a bloody hand gripping the top of Sam's left shoulder, stemming a flow of blood. "What the fuck, Ketch?! You shot him?!" he roared, grabbing a fistful of the Englishman's suit, about to swing at him.

"If I hadn't, you'd be dead, Dean," Ketch snapped, knocking his hand away and pointing. Dean looked down at the ground beside him. A gun lay next to Sam's outstretched fingers. "I got here just as you went for Thomas. Sam grabbed that from the table and aimed it _at you_ – "

"No, he wouldn't," Dean shook his head vehemently.

"I'm sorry, but he did. I had no choice but to incapacitate him – I couldn't get to him before he fired. It's not a lethal shot. He hit his head on the table when he fell. It was for your safety, Dean," Ketch explained. Dean glared at him venomously.

"You had no right," he hissed. His hand clamped around his thigh, blood pouring between his fingers. Both men looked up as footsteps echoed down the corridor, both guns raising to meet the sound.

Jody appeared in the door, her gun pointed at them.

"Jesus! What the hell happened?" she exclaimed, rushing forward. She was shrugging off her jacket instantly, balling it up and pressing it to Dean's leg as she knelt beside him. He gasped in agony as she pressed, his hand coming over hers.

"Where's the other one?" Dean rasped. Jody smiled grimly.

"Dead."

"Good," he growled.

"Dean, press this down on Sam's shoulder for me," Ketch instructed, using his own jacket to stem the flow of blood from Sam's shoulder. Dean did as he was bid, wincing as he shifted position. "I'm going to get the medical kit from the car. I won't be long."

They watched as Ketch jogged from the room, Dean's gaze falling back down to his brother.

"Dean, are you alright?" Jody asked, her voice soft. He swallowed hard, shaking his head. Her other hand reached up to stroke his cheek gently.

"Thomas wanted him to kill me, Jody," he whispered, trying to fight the crack in his voice.

"He didn't though; he wouldn't," Jody replied, her eyes lingering on Sam. Dean nodded, shoving down the doubt that rose within him. It was shock, that's all it was. Sam wouldn't try to hurt him. Ketch had overreacted. He was wrong.

The Englishman reappeared, a box under one arm and another, smaller one in his hand. He knelt down next to Sam again and opened the slim black one, extracting a needle and vial from it.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean barked, making a swipe for the needle. Ketch leaned back out of the way.

"Dean, put pressure on that; I don't want Sam to bleed out," the Englishman ignored him as he pulled a measurement of clear liquid from the glass vial. "This needs to be done. Sam is going to be disorientated and distressed when he wakes up. I would rather not have him do that in the car on the way back to the bunker. We also need to pull out that bullet before we leave and he certainly won't want to be awake for that."

"He's right, Dean," Jody said quietly, avoiding looking him in the eyes as she reached over and grabbed a field dressing and bottle of saline solution from the other box. The hunter seethed, wanting to fight them both but knowing he wouldn't win. Deep down, he knew what they were saying made sense.

He didn't have to like it.

Ketch slid the needle into Sam's arm smoothly with practised hands before putting it to one side.

"Jody, can you please deal with their injuries? I'll see to the bodies until I can come back at a later time and process everything," he requested. Jody nodded wordlessly as she worked on Dean's leg, pouring the saline over the open wound. He groaned, nearly letting go of Sam's shoulder as she murmured her apologies. He locked his gaze onto his baby brother. Dean focused on him, on Sam.

They'd found him. That was all that mattered.

oOo

 **Jeeeeeeeeeez that got a bit intense. Don't worry – we're not done yet ;)**

 **Please review!**


	29. Darkest Side of Me

**So, I'm hoping that 12x21 helped validate what I've been doing…their conditioning of Mary was obviously much quicker that Thomas' process but similar result. I want it to be clear that the decisions that Sam makes, whilst massively out of his 'normal' character, are 'in' character for what he's become throughout this story (but those of you who have been on this journey with me know that!).**

 **Also, apologies for the wait: I couldn't write over the weekend as I was at Asylum 18.**

 **Last chapter…here we go!**

oOo

 _"I can't escape this hell_

 _So many times I've tried_

 _But I'm still caged inside."_

 _\- Animal I Have Become, Three Days Grace_

oOo

Dean limped into the bunker, leaning heavily on Jody, one arm wrapped around his broken ribs. He'd sat in the back of the Impala, Sam's head resting in his lap, for the whole journey back. Jody had driven, leaving her truck in Chicago. She would go back with Ketch later to get it and finish investigating the scene. Ketch had picked up the important (and incriminating) items, but the rest had been left and locked away.

The hunter was exhausted and ached all over, unable to fall asleep for fear of his brother waking up and needing him. It'd given him too much time to dwell on what had happened and that was never a good sign for the older Winchester. He watched now as Ketch carried Sam in, hefting the younger man over one shoulder and heading towards his room.

Guilt swarmed through the older Winchester; Sam had suffered enough with his freedom being taken without them having to resort to the underhanded tactics of Thomas and Anna too. Dean just hoped that he'd understand…he swore there and then that he wouldn't use the excuse of doing it "for his own good". Technically, Ketch would argue it was true. Dean knew it but didn't want to believe it.

"I think it's about time you slept," Jody remarked as she staggered beneath his weight, one of his arms looped around her shoulders as she followed Ketch towards the bedrooms.

"No," Dean shook his head vehemently.

"Dean –"

"I said no, Jody," he snapped and instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to take it out on you. But I need to be there when he wakes up. I need to see that he's okay and I need him to see me."

"I get it," Jody replied mildly, steering him towards the kitchen. She looked up at him sharply when he tried pull her after Ketch. "Dean, I need to redress your leg and that'll be a lot easier in the kitchen. You can go to Sam's room afterwards, okay?"

The hunter bit back a growl of frustration but let her lead him. Ketch disappeared with Sam and Dean felt his anxiety shoot up the moment his little brother was out of sight. After all this, he might never let him leave a room alone again. Knowing his brother, Dean knew that Sam wouldn't want to either; he'd want his older brother around.

Which was why Jody needed to _hurry up._

She made him sit on the long metal bench by the table, his leg extended out in front of him as she unwound the field dressing she'd applied back in Chicago. The sheriff inspected it closely.

"I think I'm gonna have to stitch it; it's too open for my likin'," she explained, wandering over to the medical kit they kept in the cupboard. Her second pick up was the bottle of whisky Dean had abandoned after getting out of the farmhouse. Wordlessly, she handed him the bottle and he took a large mouthful as she prepped the needle.

Ketch heard Dean's curses from down the hall as he laid Sam out gently on the bed. He was relieved that Sam hadn't woken during their trip, although he'd have been surprised if he had; the younger man had been given enough tranquiliser to knock out an elephant. It wasn't going to be pretty when he came around. Ketch had been concerned even before he'd seen Sam pull a gun on his brother. It didn't matter what Dean did or didn't want to believe; Ketch knew what he'd seen.

Sam was a risk to them and himself.

If Ketch had his way…

Yet he didn't. Dean had made that quite apparent. However, he was curious. There was something more going on and he doubted that Sam would willingly divulge the information. But, to help him, they needed to know.

He checked Sam's bandaged and stitched shoulder before leaving the room and heading for the library where his briefcase was sat.

Jody helped Dean into Sam's room, his face drawn. He lifted his arm from around her shoulder and hobbled over to Sam's chest of drawers, rifling through the third drawer. He pulled out a strange black contraption fitted with multiple straps. She watched him untangle it, understanding dawning when she saw it unravel.

"Here, let me help," she offered, holding out her hands. He passed it to her and she walked over to Sam's left and gently eased his arm into the black material, sliding it up to his elbow.

"Ready?" Dean asked, placing one hand under Sam's head, supporting it as the other eased his upper body up. Jody slipped the band beneath him and helped Dean feed his opposite arm through the middle of a group of straps. Dean placed his brother's uninjured arm down carefully and grabbed the second strap as Jody fed it under the small of Sam's back. They snapped the buckles together, rearranging and retightening some. "I knew this thing'd come in handy after he busted his shoulder the last time," Dean remarked as he finished making a few final adjustments to the sling. It would help minimise the movement of the gunshot wound, letting it heal quicker. Plus, more importantly, it wouldn't hurt so much.

He pulled up a rounded chair, making sure it was close enough to the bed for him to rest his feet on it.

"Are you gonna be okay if I head out for a while?" Jody asked, her eyes fixed on Sam's peaceful expression. Now that she knew Sam was safe in the bunker with his brother, she needed to get out and clear her head. The events of the last couple of days were catching up – she could feel them – and Dean didn't need to deal with her emotions right now. He had enough to worry about with Sam.

"Yeah, we'll be fine. Thanks, Jody," he gave her a tired smile. She squeezed his shoulder affectionately before heading out of the room, leaving the brothers together. Dean settled in, ignoring the aches in his body and the tiredness that stretched behind his eyes. He rubbed one with his fingers, wishing now that he'd got a coffee to help him stay alert. There was no way he was moving now and Ketch was nowhere to be seen.

Relaxing back into the chair, Dean watched his brother sleep, relief finally spreading its warmth through him.

oOo

Awareness spread heavily through his extremities, leaving a trail of agony and aching blazing through him. His head throbbed, particularly on one side, and his shoulder shot hot spikes through his nerves whenever he moved. Not that his arm seemed to be able to move much at all; something was clamping it to his torso. None of that was the worst though; physical pain he was used to – he could deal with it.

It was the smell.

The scent stretched around him, enveloping him in its warm headiness. It was subtle: a hint of old books, sturdy wooden furniture and gun oil. It was the smell of home.

 _No._

It was the smell of Dean. Sam could never mistake that scent and his eyes welled even though he hadn't opened them. Despair crippled him, his lungs tightening as he fought it. He wanted to cry, to scream, to bang his fists against the walls until they broke. He was back, in the bunker – no, in the fake bunker – and that could only mean one thing.

They'd failed.

He was trapped forever. The thought stole the small amount of breath he'd sucked in. He lay there, paralysed. The scent of his brother drifted near again.

 _Oh god. He's here._

Panic flooded his mind and he couldn't think. What was he supposed to do? _Get out._ And go where? What could he possibly do? He was in a fictional reality and his only saviour was gone. If he was here, Thomas was dead. Sam tried to remember, searching through the fog to try and make sense of it, hoping it would slow the frantic beating of his heart.

He'd been standing behind Lucifer, holding the knife…something had made him stop; he didn't know what. Pain had exploded then: Lucifer had got free and was gunning for Thomas. He'd shouted…gone for the gun on the table. Raised it, taken aim and then…nothing but agony. Something had hit his shoulder and he'd fallen, glimpsing a stranger in the door before he smacked his head.

There was nothing else and now he was back at the bunker. Alone. With the devil.

 _Get out. Anywhere but here. Run._

Cracking his eyes open slowly, Sam saw the familiar image of his bedroom ceiling. It was one he'd seen countless times; no wonder his mind could construct it in minute detail. His body betrayed him; it found comfort, a sense of relief, in the familiarity. But it was a lie. He needed to remember that. Letting his eyes slide over to his left, his breath caught as his heart banged against his ribs, blood roaring in his ears, the comfort gone.

Lucifer sat, sound asleep in a chair beside him, legs stretched out and propped up on the bed. He was still wearing Dean's face. Why? Hadn't he tormented Sam enough?

 _He'll never stop; you know that._

Sam couldn't waste time; the longer he lay there, the more likely he was to wake up. If he woke up…

 _Run._

As quietly as he could, Sam tried to sit up, confused when only one arm cooperated. He looked down, frowning when he saw his old sling protecting his left arm, holding it still. He hated it. He hated that Lucifer would play at being caring, knowing that everything he did would torment Sam further. The bed creaked as he eased himself up using his right arm, wincing both at the noise and the ache. His eyes flickered nervously to the devil. He hadn't stirred. Sam doubted he was asleep; Lucifer enjoyed toying with him. He didn't have a choice but to play his games – not if he wanted to get out.

Swinging his legs over the edge, Sam bit his lip, suppressing a groan as he stood up, keeping his body half turned towards Lucifer. Taking a shaky breath, he steeled himself and edged slowly, carefully towards the door, keeping his gaze trained on the chair and his footfalls soft. The door was open. He slid through the gap, careful not to touch the wood. It was too easy, but then, Lucifer was never going to attacked him that quickly. There was no fun in that.

His heart ached as he hurried down the corridor. The panic kept him moving but it couldn't squash the longing for the home that wasn't his anymore. Silence reigned as he jogged past Dean's room and the kitchen before entering the library. The ache increased. It was exactly as he'd left it save for a strange black briefcase sitting on the table and Dean's dormant laptop opposite it. If he could get to the garage, he could take one of the cars.

 _And go where?_

Anywhere. It didn't matter. He just needed to get away and regroup. If he could do that, maybe he could work out how the hell he could get himself out of this mess.

 _You're not strong enough for that and you know it._

He had to be. There was no other choice.

Half running, half walking through the library, Sam had just made it to the archway into the antechamber when a stranger rounded the corner, stepping straight into his path. He skidded to a halt.

"I'm sorry, Sam but I can't let you leave," the man apologised, his accent warm like Thomas'. The familiarity brushed against another longing inside him – god, he needed Thomas right now – but he pushed it down. He had to get out.

Ketch watched Sam, sensing the anxiety rolling off the younger man. His whole body was tensed: a coiled spring with a feral panic lighting his eyes. He took a step forwards; Sam took one back, his eyes darting over Ketch's shoulder.

"It's going to be alright, Sam. I want to help you. But to do that, I need you to calm down. I only want to talk," the man said, his tone level and soothing. Sam wasn't fooled. He had to be Ketch and therefore he was dangerous. Everyone in the bunker was a threat.

 _Go. Now!_

Sam shot forward, feinting left and driving right, manoeuvring around Ketch. He was in no condition to fight; all he wanted was to get out. His gaze was fixated on the stairs leading up and out of the bunker as he shot past Ketch and cleared the first step. He was half way to the stairs when an arm snaked around his throat, wrenching him back. His one good arm reached up to grab it, but he couldn't get a grip and his left was trapped in the sling. Ketch's other hand tilted his head forward, tightening his grip and Sam saw dark blobs swim into his vision. He fought until there was nothing.

Ketch held on until he felt Sam relax entirely beneath him. He'd _told_ Dean. He knew this would happen. He'd have to go and check that the fool was still in one piece, but, judging by the frightened look of the youngest Winchester, getting out had been his first instinct rather than attacking his brother again. The Englishman hefted him up, dragging him across the floor and into one of the chairs at the library table. He wouldn't have long and he needed to make it count; Dean would never approve.

Not that Ketch was going to ask for permission.

Grabbing his briefcase, he pulled out a special vial filled with a translucent amber liquid. With deft fingers, he drew a sample into a needle and found one of the veins in Sam's right arm. Once finished, he grabbed a pair of handcuffs and loosely fastened his right arm to the wooden armrest. It wasn't tight but it would stop the Winchester from clambering off while Ketch jogged off to see if Dean was alive.

He peered through the gap in Sam's bedroom door, satisfied to see the hunter sound asleep in the chair, unaware that his brother had gone. He'd observed Dean throughout their return to Lebanon; he hadn't fallen asleep once. There was no way he was going to be waking up any time soon, giving Ketch probably more time than was adequate for his task. Ketch pulled the door shut quietly before heading back to the library.

Sam was already coming around, but his movements were sluggish, disorientated. He blinked hard, the cuff rattling against the wooden as he tugged absently at it, staring down in confusion.

"I do apologise, Sam, but you're going to feel a little…out of it for a little while," Ketch explained, pulling up another chair and seating directly in front of Sam. He reached into his briefcase again and pulled out a dictaphone, setting it to record.

"What did you do?" Sam asked, his words slurring slightly. He felt…weird. It was like he was in a trance but wasn't; he was definitely awake, definitely knew his name, where he was…yet he couldn't find the panic that had driven him through the bunker just minutes beforehand. In fact, he couldn't feel anything. There was nothing. No fear, no panic, just…a void. Sam knew he should be trying to run but he couldn't find the energy. His body felt too heavy.

"Nothing that you need to be worried about at all, Sam. Don't fight it; you'll feel better if you go with it. I promise you," Ketch soothed, his voice becoming soft and calm, much like a hypnotist's. "Do you know who I am?"

Sam nodded, shifting in the chair. It took more effort than it should have.

"I need you to answer everything with words, please Sam, there's a good lad," Ketch prompted smoothly. If he'd have been Thomas, it would've sounded patronising (not that he liked to think of Thomas that way), yet Ketch didn't. He was encouraging. An overwhelming desire to talk took Sam over.

"You're Ketch," he blurted out, unable to stop himself.

"That's good, Sam. I am. How do you know that? Did someone tell you?"

"Thomas told me about you," Sam replied before he could even think about lying. He fiddled idly with the edge of the sling. That was good; his serum was doing half its job – forcing him to relax without taking away his full focus.

"Thank you, Sam. I need you to clarify some details that I'm unclear on," Ketch explained, keeping his gaze locked on Sam, studying his every movement.

"Okay."

"When you were in the warehouse and I came in, why were you about to shoot Dean?" he asked, going straight in at the deep end. There was no point in bandying words; he didn't have the time.

"I wasn't," Sam countered, shaking his head. Ketch frowned.

"What did you pick up off the table?"

"A gun." So he wasn't lying – yet. Ketch looked over Sam's shoulder, listening for signs of Dean stirring. There were none.

"Were you going to use it?" he queried, giving Sam his full attention again.

"Yes," Sam nodded, his eyes wandering absently past Ketch. He was beginning to get restless; why was Ketch so interested in the gun? He wanted to ask, but for some reason, he couldn't. His vocal chords refused to try.

"On Dean?" Ketch prompted again.

"No," Sam repeated, grinding his teeth. He'd already said he wasn't; why did he keep asking? Ketch picked up the vial again and administered another around. Sam watched him dispassionately. "What're you doing?"

"Just helping you to relax a little more, not to worry," Ketch murmured, putting the needle back in its box. He knew what he'd seen back in Chicago; maybe he needed to give the serum a little more time to work. "Do you know where we are now, Sam?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"Can you tell me what you mean by 'sort of'?" Ketch blinked away the frown that tried to form.

"We're in the bunker, but it's not the real bunker," Sam explained, his shoulders sagging further as the serum took hold. He felt both weighed down and floaty. His right hand dropped into his lap. Keeping it up was too much effort.

"Why don't you think this is the 'real bunker'?"

"Because none of this is. I'm the only thing that is and even then that's not strictly true," Sam mumbled, heaving a shrug. Ketch frowned; he wasn't making any sense. What on earth had he been told? The extent of Thomas' influence was perhaps more alarming than he'd first thought.

"Why don't you think anything is real?"

"Thomas told me the truth."

"What truth is that?" Now they were getting somewhere.

"That I said yes to Lucifer." Sam murmured, his gaze tracing the floor. Ketch's eyes widened in surprise. It made sense; if Sam thought that his world was fictitious, he'd be less likely to keep the emotional ties to his family, thus allowing Thomas to cement Sam's place in his delusion. Given Sam's fragile mindset before Thomas had taken him, and the extent of his conditioning in the last month, it was hardly surprising that Sam thought it was true. And he did believe it; he couldn't fool a double dose of Ketch's truth serum. This wasn't good for the American at all. Ketch wasn't even sure if they'd be able to reverse much of what Thomas had done; he needed to know how much more to this there was.

"Alright, Sam. Can you tell me what you were doing in Chicago?" Ketch inquired, changing the direction of his questions.

"We were doing a ritual to expel Lucifer. If it worked, Thomas said that it would get Lucifer out of my head and I'd be able to wake up and take control again."

An alarm bell started to ring in Ketch's mind. That explained the symbol on the floor, the markings in blood on Dean. That it was a legitimate ritual, Ketch had no doubts, but it obviously wasn't for expelling Lucifer; that was a front. He had his suspicions of what it could have been for, but he'd need to go back to the warehouse and contact the Ritualistic Team back home to discover its true purpose. Rituals were not his forte.

"And that ritual required you to kill your brother – to kill Dean?"

"No, I keep telling you that," Sam grumbled, growing agitated, his voice rising. He half-heartedly pulled on the handcuff securing him to the chair.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't mean to upset you," Ketch soothed again, keeping his tone pleasant. "What did the ritual need you to do?"

"I had to kill Lucifer."

 _Bollocks. Thomas, you clever bastard._ Dean had no idea what he was in for.

"Who were you aiming the gun at?" Ketch asked, knowing that he needed Sam to say it for the recording. If Sam didn't say it, Dean would never believe it.

"Lucifer."

"Why is Lucifer disguised as Dean?"

"Because he likes to watch when he plays games. Thomas said that Lucifer did as I asked him to when I made a deal with him back in the barn in England; if he would create a world for me in my head where I didn't know what he was doing, I would say yes. Lucifer being Lucifer though wouldn't have been able to keep out so he took on Dean's vessel. That's why I had to stay in the cellar; that's why I got the brand: so that he couldn't find me," Sam explained, heaving a sigh.

Poor lad. Thomas had well and truly broken him, taking his trust in his brother and destroying it. Now, back in the bunker, it was no wonder Sam was trying to bolt. He couldn't see reality – his reality – was Thomas' fiction. The fact that he'd nearly killed Dean – and Ketch wasn't sure Dean would truly accept how close to death he'd actually been – proved that Sam had no doubts about who he thought the devil was.

Thank god sorting his head out wasn't Ketch's mission. Getting the truth was. He'd collect it and present it. Dean would need to sort it.

"Thank you, Sam. I've just got a few more questions that I need you to answer," he remarked, straightening up in his chair.

oOo

Something wasn't right.

The feeling crept through his subconscious, morphing his dream, taking it down a darker road. He'd been sat on the hood of the Impala, drinking beers, laughing with Sam. They'd been relaxed. Happy. It was soothing after so much uncertainty. But Sam had gone to grab another beer from the trunk and he hadn't come back. Dean had climbed off the hood and walked around the back to find the lid open but no Sam. So he'd started running. And running. And running.

The road refused to end.

Dean blinked awake, disturbed by the unsettled feeling. It wasn't eased when he fixed his eyes on Sam's bed. It intensified.

Sam wasn't there.

"Sam?!" he shouted, bolting upright, heart hammering. "Sammy?!" He ran, or at least, he tried. Pain seared through his injured thigh as he hobbled out of the room. He couldn't lose Sam again, not after he'd just got him back! He shouldn't have fallen asleep; why did he let himself fall asleep? He was such an idiot!

Every step was agony as he stumbled down the corridor, bracing against the wall with one hand. This couldn't be happening. Why would Sam go out of the room without waking him?! Any logical explanation fell to the back of his mind; there was no logic to his panic.

Rounding the corner to the library, Dean stopped dead. His fist clenched against the wall.

"What the hell is goin' on?!" he roared, red tinging around his vision. Sam sat with his back to his brother, Ketch in front of him, but all Dean could see was the silver wrapped around his brother's wrist, holding him to the chair.

Ketch looked up, his face grim.

"Thank you, Sam; that will be all for now," he said simply as he reached for a small black dictaphone and flicked a switch, placing it back on the table. Dean was across the room before he was done, snatching a handful of Ketch's shirt in his fist and dragging the older man up out of his chair, standing between him and Sam. He brought his face up close to the Englishman's.

"I said: what the fuck is goin' on?" he snarled, green eyes livid.

"I've been unpicking what's been going on, Dean – getting the truth that we need," Ketch replied, unfazed by the hunter's aggression. With a vicelike grip, he pulled Dean's hand from his shirt. Dean let go and turned his attention on his brother. Sam looked around lazily, paying no attention to the two men. Dean crouched down in front of him, cupping his face gently with one hand to try to get him to focus. Sam jerked away from the touch, but made no sound.

"What did you do to him? Why is he like this?" Dean asked, frowning at his brother who looked everywhere but at him.

"I simply used a truth serum on him; he's just a tad dazed. It'll wear off."

"You drugged him?" Dean's voice was deceptively softly as he stared up into Sam's face, his heart aching.

"It was necessary, Dean. We need to know what we're dealing with. Sam is a danger to both himself and us," Ketch replied warily.

"Keys. Now." Dean hissed, glaring up at Ketch, his hand held out expectantly. Ketch reached into his inner jacket pocket, holding them out without a word. Dean snatched them from his hand, unlocking the handcuff from Sam's wrist in an instant.

"Dean, you need to –"

"Get out."

It was said quietly, but Ketch paused, watching Dean's back uneasily as the hunter straightened up.

"Dean, you don't know –" The blow stopped him midsentence, sending the Englishman reeling backwards. His hand shot up to his face, blood already welling in a cut on his cheek.

"Which part of 'get out' wasn't clear? You wait until I'm asleep, tie my brother to a chair and then dose him with whatever shit you use. Don't you think he's been through enough?" Dean snapped, blocking Ketch's view of Sam. His hands were balled into fists, arms straight and tensed, anger rolling off him in waves. Ketch put his hands up and stepped backwards.

"Alright. But Dean: listen to the recording. You need to hear it," he insisted, snapping his briefcase closed before turning and walking out, Dean's gaze burning into his back. Sam was supposed to feel safe in his home, not manipulated by yet another stranger intent on controlling him.

The door closing echoed through the bunker as Dean turned back to Sam who just stared listlessly around the room.

"Sammy, are you okay?" he asked, pulling him up out of the seat gently, taking care not to jolt the sling. He half thought Sam was going to resist – he saw a whisper of panic flicker through the deadened grey of his eyes – but he just stood automatically.

"No, I'm not. Nothing is okay anymore," Sam replied quietly, looking anywhere but at him. Dean swallowed, concern seeping into his nerves.

"But we got you out Sammy; you're home. I know we gotta lot to do but it'll be alright in a few days. You'll see," he insisted, guiding Sam back towards the bedrooms. He didn't like how…compliant he was: it was as though he had no control whatever over his own body. Dean's blood simmered. It was a good thing Ketch was smart enough to go.

Sam didn't say a word as he was shepherded back to his room. He knew he should be running, terrified, but his body wouldn't feel it. Inside his head, he could feel the panic banging and screaming, but it was caged, locked away in a fog of numbness that dulled everything. He wanted to rile against the control, to fight and flee, but nothing listened; he knew that he'd be asleep as soon as Lucifer told him to do so.

He couldn't understand what he'd seen, what he'd heard. The conversation between Lucifer and Ketch hadn't made sense. It was just another mind game: make it seem like he was being protected, but all the while he was contained. As he slid in under the duvet, Sam wanted to let go, to scream and cry. But he couldn't.

"I'm glad you're back home, Sammy," Lucifer murmured softly, his honeyed voice full of compassion and sadness.

"I wish I was," he replied, hating that he was trapped in the cruel imitation of his home.

Dean swallowed, fighting back the tears that threatened. How could he not be glad he was home? Yet again, doubt seeped into the hunter; how was he supposed to fix his little brother?

"That's okay, Sammy; just go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up," he said reassuringly, his voice low and rough.

"I don't want you to be," Sam whispered as he turned over. Dean swallowed, unable to breathe, limping from the room. He switched the light off and pulled the door nearly, but not fully, closed, sliding himself down the wall next to his brother's room, not caring about the screaming agony in his leg.

He buried his head in his hands and silently cried.

oOo

Sleep didn't come easily, nor did it last long, but when Sam awoke, he felt as close to what could be considered normal as he got these days. Normal now meant waking with a thrumming heart, rising panic and an insatiable need to _run._

Sliding his eyes towards the door in the half-dark, he was relieved to see no signs of Lucifer. That didn't mean he was gone or that Sam was out of danger. In some ways it was worse; he knew he'd never get out without bumping into the devil. Every truth that Ketch had forced out of him was etched into his mind and the words were bitter on his tongue. He hadn't wanted to say any of it; Lucifer now knew exactly what he knew, but he couldn't help it.

 _You have to fight or you're never gonna get out. You tried the passive way and you got caught. Do what Thomas would want you to. Get away. Regroup. Plan your next move._

The tiny voice was quiet but strong in his head: the whisperings of the hunter long dead inside him. Doubt and fear coursed through him, shivering down his spine. He knew what Lucifer would do if he got caught, if he fought, but what choice did he really have?

He needed out and he needed it now.

oOo

The small black dictaphone sat on the library table, staring up at Dean.

 _Dean: listen to the recording. You need to hear it._

His anger boiled up again at the thought of Ketch violating Sam's trust. Whatever truths they needed to know, Sam needed to be the one to say them. Ketch had no right to pull them out of him without permission. If Sam was hurting, he had to be able to build up his trust in them again and Ketch's actions didn't help.

And yet…

Dean knew the look in Ketch's eye too well. The Englishman hid his emotions well, but Dean was well practiced at noticing the small tells that people gave away. Ketch looked almost…haunted. And whatever had made him look that way was on the dictaphone.

After his own silent outburst, Dean had come into the library and sat staring down at the small black box for over an hour. He couldn't bring himself to listen to it, but he couldn't destroy it either. What if the information he really needed to help his brother was there on the recording? He shouldn't have to listen to it. Sam trusted him; he would tell him anything he needed to know to help. That's the way they'd always operated. Yet…he hadn't felt the doubts he did now for a long time. He'd fixed his brother before, but Sam had never been broken like this: by _people_.

Dean didn't know where he was going to start, but he needed to figure it out and soon.

Absorbed as he was in his thoughts, the hunter didn't notice a thing until something hard smashed into the side of his head, sending him sprawling halfway over the table. He gasped as his broken ribs slammed into the edge of the table. Feet smacked against the floor as Sam raced past him.

"Sammy, wait!" he shouted, hauling himself up and giving chase, ignoring the pain that shot through his leg, his chest. His brother didn't listen; he just ploughed forward, running towards the stairs up to the entrance to the bunker.

 _Sam is a danger to both himself and us._

He couldn't let him go; it wasn't safe.

"Sam, stop!" he tried again, but Sam didn't listen. He caught up and reached out, grabbing Sam's good arm, dragging him to a halt. He wasn't prepared for the sudden jab of Sam's elbow knocking him backwards and loosening his grip. Sam whirled, panic clear in his wide grey eyes as he struck out with his fist. Dean ducked out of the way, but wouldn't – couldn't – retaliate. He hesitated as he blocked another punch, taken aback by the ferocity, the desperation, that slid off his brother in waves. He was at the disadvantage – despite Sam being down one arm – there was no way he was going to hurt his little brother.

Sam threw another uppercut followed by a huge kick with his foot, knocking Lucifer back just enough to let him turn and race up the stairs, the sound of the door screeching open ahead of him barely registering in his ears.

"Jody, block him!" he heard Lucifer roar as he scrambled up the stairs. A perfect replica of Jody stood, wide-eyed, at the top, blocking his way. It was another trap: another way to contain him. It wasn't the real Jody. He barrelled forwards, feeling his tormentor catching up behind him. The fake Jody stood with her arms wide, palms out in a supposedly defensive manner. He knew the devil's tricks.

"Sam, honey, you need to calm down and stop. We're not gonna hurt you," she insisted urgently, her voice a perfect imitation. He couldn't take it.

Dean watched, horrified, as Sam reached Jody, knocking her to one side before doing a quick turn on the spot and grabbing her with his good arm, his huge hand wrapping around her throat.

Dean stopped three steps from the top of the stairs.

"If you come any closer, I'll snap her neck," Sam snarled, his grip already tightening, but all Dean saw was the fear in his eyes and the confusion followed by panic that flooded in Jody's. Her fingers grappled with his hand, trying to loosen his grip. Dean put his hands up.

"Sammy, you need to stop, okay? I know you're scared and what Ketch did wasn't okay, but I promise you you're safe here. You don't need to hurt Jody; we only want to help," Dean pleaded, keeping his voice calm despite the terror coursing through him. "Let her go, man, c'mon. This isn't you. You don't wanna hurt her."

If it had been the real Jody, Sam would never have even thought about using her as a shield. But she wasn't and he needed something between him and his greatest fear. The display Lucifer was putting on was so convincing, so acutely like Dean: no wonder it had taken Thomas to show him the truth. He never would've found it out himself.

"It's alright, Jody, he won't hurt you, will you Sammy?" He felt her go still under his hand, relaxing. They were going to do something.

He couldn't let them. He needed out.

Now or never.

Sam let go of Jody instantly, stepping back in the same motion and booting her in the back with one foot. She toppled forward off the top step, falling straight into Lucifer, his arms opening to catch her unconsciously as they both tumbled together down the stairs.

It wouldn't stop them for long.

Sam turned and ran, charging out of the bunker and towards his freedom.

oOo

 **I want to say a massive thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and favourited, particularly the guests: I'm so glad to have shared this (rather epically long) journey with you all. It's the biggest story I've ever done!**

 **An even bigger thank you to MJ Elsworth: without her, this story would never have happened as it was her suggestion in the first place. You've been a wonderful muse, brainstorming partner and friend throughout this whole saga.**

 **As you can tell though, it's not the end. Let's face it, I've damaged the boys way too much to clear it up in a few chapters at the end of this one.**

 **Please review and I'll see you real soon with Part 3!**


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